


A Sip of Something Poison

by Aria_i_Adagio, Verdin



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Drunk Sex, Fortune Telling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mercenary Lucio (The Arcana), Mystical Creatures, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin
Summary: All of us were young once, even a weird wannabe doctor and a mercenary with big plans. Strange tides throw them together, tear them apart, and... or is it themselves that get torn apart?A very AU take on Lu and Julian a good few years earlier. Both of them have a lot to do to become the men they want to be, and maybe to survive.Among the problems they face is the usual mix of love and war, needs and desires, with a little magic and substance abuse thrown in. Our boys will never be angels, even if they may look the part.
Relationships: Julian Devorak/Lucio (The Arcana), Julian Devorak/Original Female Character(s), Julian Devorak/The Hanged Man, Lucio (The Arcana)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This backstory for Julian was concocted before the reveal in Portia’s route that Nazali took off Lucio’s arm. Instead Ilya has been apprenticing with a surgeon affiliated with Lucio’s mercenaries for roughly four years. Welcome to Ilya’s adventures in his ‘misspent’ youth. Because we’re all fools when we’re in our early twenties, and probably don’t realize the extent of it until sometime closer to thirty.
> 
> Work title from Foster the People, "Helena Beat"

"Hey there, kid..." His voice is weak, barely there, as is the grip around Ilya's wrist.

Still, it could be worse. He could be dead.

He had been close to it, running a high fever all through the last week, his body battling not only with the loss of his arm, but also with the sepsis that followed, and Ilya's teacher didn't give him much of a chance. "See how a man dies even after the battle is won." The grizzled old man is a firm believer in learning through pain, and so he tasked Ilya to spend his nights at the side of the unconscious blond, listening as he cried or babbled in wild dreams in the language of the south, forcing mixtures of herbs into him and trying to cool down the heated blood. There was one thing Ilya didn’t hear, the one thing he always heard from dying men. Anything that vaguely resembled a word for mother. Ma, mama, amma, mother. Nothing.

The commander struggles to open his eyes.  _ Lucio.  _ Ilya has seen him - mostly from afar - always loud and proud and boasting and drunk, always in the first line of the battlefield, but now, those impossibly bright eyes focused on him for the first time, or try to, and he whispers, "Thirsty..."

Julian scrambles for water. There is a pitcher of it in the corner. The commander had been laid out in a section of the hospital tent that's cordoned off with curtains, high enough that a pitcher has been left in here, instead of a common bucket of water with a gourd dipper. He might have been left for dead otherwise, arm shattered by some sort of artillery blast, bones in fragments, bleeding out rapidly, not much left to take off, more of a clean up job really. Shaping the remaining bone, cutting it back enough that a flap of skin could be closed over the wound. Finding and removing as many bits of shrapnel as possible. Somehow - and Ilya doesn't know how - nothing hit his face.

He slides an arm under the other man's shoulders far enough that he could drink without choking and holds a mug to his mouth. The blond drinks greedily, or tries to, but Ilya doesn't let him, because it's poor bedside manner to let a patient choke, and so water ran down his chin, dripping onto the bandaged chest, and he grunts in frustration then leans against Julian heavily, trying to properly breathe.

"Shit," he gasps. "More?"

"Breathe first. And rest a minute. Too much, too quick, and you'll be sick from it."

He tries, really did, to take a raspy lungful of air. Coughs, because that alone is too much, and whimpers like a dying dog. "Hurts . . ." Another cough.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Ilya trades the cup for a damp rag and dabs the sweat off his brow. "Do you think you can bear it for a little while before I give you more of the opium? You've been out for a couple days, you need to get some food and water in you." He wonders how much Lucio knows about how badly injured he had been. He had been unconscious by the time someone dragged him in.

"Just a scratch." Another cough that might be the idea of a laugh and the mercenary tries to sit up more, pressing the hand into the mattress to get some traction, and the boy knows the muscles on the other side are tensing too, trying to move a limb that's no longer there, and helps in time before Lucio could fall, saving him from an awkward tumble.

"Dammit . . ." Lucio groans.  _ This is not how life should feel. _

There is something of the fiery commander's swagger there, in that declaration that the pain is no more than a scratch. Scratches are the least of his worries. Beyond the arm, he is covered in gouges where bits and pieces of metal were pulled out of his body. Ilya holds the cup of water up to Lucio's lips again. He should run to the kitchen tent. Get some broth, anything that would get some calories into the man. But he also shouldn't leave until Lucio realizes that he's lost an arm. Ilya is accustomed to the blood, the gore, moving from one surgery to another without a pause to catch a breath. He's been doing that for more than three years now. But he hasn't done  _ this _ before, not explaining that someone’s body had been mangled by battle and put back together as well as possible.

No one had required Ilya to take this watch. He volunteered to with Lucio because something about him had fascinated the medic more and more with every glimpse he had gotten of the commander as the mercenaries moved about the continent, going from one contract to the next. Fascinated to the point that he started manufacturing excuses to run errands to the section of the camp where Lucio's tent was located, hoping to get a passing smile. Once he stumbled over his own feet while walking past the commander, and Lucio caught him under the arm, steadying him with a laugh, and then slapping him firmly on the back.

"It's bad, kid, isn’t it?"

Lucio sits still, very still, trying to grasp what exactly is wrong and his body just responds with hysterical giggling, pain firing every nerve that is trying and failing to find its missing mate. Lucio wants to say he's been worse, but he hasn't. He always managed to get away with somewhat superficial cuts and bruises. Being good at his trade helped with it. But luck was needed too, and everyone ran out of that eventually.

Ilya nods, mouth pressed into a grim line. While he tries to think of something to say, his eyes dart to Lucio's left side.

"I’m gonna die?"

The commander tries to reach for the water, tries to reach with both hands, because he is feeling  _ so gods damn weak _ , and slowly, very slowly realizes that something's  _ off _ . That the left arm just won't come up, but why can't it, it hurts so much, and Lucio knows it's there, he can feel it, but when he looks, it's just--

" _ Oh, _ " he says.

"You're not going to die at this point, um, probably, I mean, it's unlikely. You should live.” Ilya realizes that he's babbling, and suddenly he feels his guts twist with nerves. Embarrassed that he's embarrassed, he lowers his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucio."

"Oh," Lucio repeats, frozen in the moment as if his mind just decided to give up. Fever bright eyes stare at a hand that's just  _ not there _ anymore.

Internally, Ilya curses himself, curses his mentor (not seriously) and the old surgeon's firm belief in learning while doing. He doesn't know what to say, and he ought to have something to say. Something to ease the process going through Lucio's head. He's talked to lots of soldiers who have lost limbs before, chatting with them - or if they weren't talking - keeping a conversation going with himself just to fend off the quiet - but usually, right now, when they were just coming to, just learning what had happened to them, he was passed out somewhere after a solid day and change or more of assisting with surgeries.

Instead, he takes Lucio's remaining hand in his free one, keeping a supporting arm behind the commander's back.

"It still  _ hurts  _ . . ." The whisper contains more amazement than anything else. He knows, of course he knows, that such things are just part of the deal, but it is a different thing having them happen to your own body.

"That, um, that happens. Sometimes. Frequently, actually. Should get better." Lucio's eyes are bright, probably with fever. Ilya pushes away the blond hair - fretting at it's unkempt state, the contrast with how it was usually shiny and styled to look careless - and touches the back of his hand to Lucio's forehead. Warm, but not distressingly hot.

"I know, kid. I know." A single, dry chuckle, and he leans back heavily against the boy, not able to carry his own weight right now.

Not knowing what else to do, Ilya cradles the commander against him. He isn't particularly surprised to feel tears starting in his own eyes; the old surgeon always says the Ilya feels too much for his own good. And he has been awake for thirty hours or more. He tries to fight them back anyway, running his free hand over his eyes before folding his fingers back around the Commander’s remaining hand. The other soldiers usually just refer to Lucio like that - the Commander - voices tinged with admiration and, not infrequently, with irritation.

The man let him, his mind blank as a canvas, thumb running over the boy's fingers gently, and for a brief moment, the thought enters Ilya's head that they are sitting like lovers, all distance between them gone, and he curses himself for being so inappropriate.

Without quite realizing what he's doing before it's done, Ilya shifts Lucio's weight to lean more against his chest and moved his freed hand to Lucio's face, running his thumb over the high cheekbones. He tucks his chin over Lucio's head. He's not inconsiderably taller than the other man, and sometimes - he is painfully aware of it - people find it comforting when he uses his height to envelope them. "Is there someone you want me to fetch? Or write to?" Ilya spends a good amount of time in the aftermath of any battle scribing - well, scribbling - letters to the mothers and sweethearts of injured soldiers. Hopefully someone on the other end is able to read them.

A head shakes against his chest. No need for that. Everyone Lucio cares for is in this camp anyway and none of them are very good with encouraging words. Crude jokes maybe, things he'll gladly laugh about later on. Well,  _ maybe _ , but he didn’t need that right now.

"Jules, was it?" Almost right, close enough, at least, the L is in there, and more than Ilya expects him to remember about some meaningless half trained medic.

"Yes?"

"Knock me out."

* * *

The Commander sleeps a lot the next days and lies on his good side like an unborn when he isn't, staring into nothingness. Eat when Ilya sits with him and talks about this and that but doesn't talk, a ruined blond automaton.

"His world has tumbled down. Maybe he'll recover, maybe he won't," his mentor grumbles when the boy asks him for advice, and it sounds like a "he probably won't".

Mood in camp is tense. It would have been easier if Lucio died, because he is the one who gives the orders and paid them when it comes down to it, and it isn’t clear who is supposed to do those things right now. If the Commander were dead, someone else would take over and see to it. With him still alive, the company is in an uncomfortable transitory state. At the moment, they are still getting paid, but none of them like sitting on their hands for too long.

One of the lieutenants arranges for sparring matches to keep them entertained, adding dealing with shallow cuts and bruises to the workload of tending to the battle injured and earning more grumbles from the surgeon. But his mentor largely leaves Ilya to tend to Lucio and the task of convincing him to eat, to try to take a little less laudanum each day, to walk around the tent. After all, Ilya is the only one having any success.

A week passes Lucio has refused to walk more than ten paces to piss in pot. He needs sunlight. Ilya is sure of it, as sure as he is of anything, which isn’t much to be entirely fair. And some more exercise or his muscles are going to start atrophying. For that matter, the man's heart needs to adjust to the changes in the amount of blood it needs to move.

"I need some sun." Ilya decides that he is going to try being indirect first. "Come with me. You're strong enough."

That earns him a flat "No." Of course it does, indirect always does. "I'm fine here." The ‘ _ I don't want to be seen like this _ ’ Ilya suspect is behind at least some of Lucio's refusal to return to living seems more and more likely. As good of a fighter he might have been, he is also known as a vain little prick, and as patient as Ilya may be, the mercenary's behavior grates on his nerves.

"I can get your hair washed and tidy. Find you a cloak. Look, anyone who saw you carried off that field knows that you're tough as nails just to have survived." Another mumbled refusal and Lucio closes his eyes - the closest he can get to rolling over and ignoring Ilya with the wound on his other arm. He suppresses a frustrated groan. "Listen, if you don't start moving around, your blood can literally clot in your legs and cause more tissue death, so what do I need to do to get you up?"

"That at least would make me a good whore for the right people!" The blond spits the reply, the most words he’s managed in the last days. "Ain't good for anything else anymore, am I? Become another sorry drunk, dreaming of former glory?"

"Only if that's what you want, fool!" Ilya can't stop himself from shouting back. "You're the commander, not a foot soldier. You can give orders with one arm as well as you could with two. I'm starting to wonder if you got your balls blown off along with your arm, so get out of bed and prove me wrong."

That makes Lucio sit up, at least that - it’s more a response that Ilya manages to get out of him most of the time. Then he stands up, opens his mouth and suddenly sits back down again, all color draining from his face, circulation not playing along with his rage.

"Fuck this! I'm not having this from a fucking kid!" Lucio spits on the floor, even paler now, his systems shutting down, cramping, adding a thin trickle of bile to the saliva on the floor, and tries to get up again to do something, anything. He falls instead, hard and uncontrolled, knees just giving way, and screams, guttural and full of rage, no words left.

The last bit might have been too much. Julian curses to himself and kneels in front of Lucio. He slides one hand under the man's right arm and places his other in his waist, almost like a waltz, and lifts him. "Come on. Back up." Lucio tries to sink back onto the bed, but Julian refuses to let go. "Nope. Stay on your feet."

"I  _ can't _ !" A sob that has been sitting inside him for days, and finally, the tears start flowing, hard and violent and accompanied by snot. He cries like a child whose world just shattered, unable to understand what has happened and whose mother is nowhere to be found.

Ilya tugs him forward, letting Lucio drop his head onto his shoulder and shift most of his weight over. Most. The blond still has some of his weight on his feet. A modest improvement, but Ilya will take it,

"You can do it." He softens his tone. Lucio sounds like a little boy for a moment, but not one who is whiny, one who is terrified and abandoned. "I'll stay with you."

Lucio just shakes his head against Ilya’s shoulder and sobs more, but he remains standing, even if it was on shaky legs.

Ilya waits for the sobs the slow. He hesitates, then rubs small circles on Lucio's back, then stops again, unsure how well physical touch would be received. "What do you need to go outside?”

The question irritates the mercenary enough to fall silent and sniff snot up his nose.

"Can we . . . can we wait til it's dark?"

Ilya still would like for him to get some sun, but any steps outside would be an improvement over staying in the tent. "Promise me?”

"And I need to wash my hair. Probably look like a mess . . ." His eyes focus on the boy, really  _ looking _ at him for the first time. A twitch of the corner of his mouth, some of the old bravado trickles back in through the cracks. "I promise. You'll come along, right?"

"I told you I would." Ilya lowers Lucio back onto the bed. To be honest, he probably isn't able to walk very far on his own, but Ilya sees no reason to say that out loud. "Try to sit for a bit. I can, um, go get some hot water. Get you cleaned up."

That earns him a smile, one that feels oddly  _ private _ , not the usual shark grin Lucio wore outside. A smile just for him, and Ilya feels a blush rising to his cheeks.

He breaks eye contact, looking down at his feet and rubbing his hands together. "I'll be right back. I, uh, want you still sitting when I get back." The second line embarrasses him. He isn't usually good at telling people what to do. Not one of his strengths. Before he can turn any redder, he turns on his heels and flees the tent.

Water is kept boiling outside of the medical tent. Ilya scooped out two buckets, then pauses and grabbed a fresh roll of bandages. Now is as good a time as any to change those. He's got a bar of very mild soap he uses on his own hair in his bag. That should do.

When he comes back, Lucio is indeed still sitting, elbow on his knee and head heavy in his hand. The brief moment of energy had vanished as fast as it had come.

"I'm sorry" he mumbles without looking up. "Nobody should see me this way."

"Why not?” Ilya sets the buckets of water down; they need to cool a bit anyway and goes to his bag to dig out the soap.

"Some fine leader, crying like a kid who lost their candy. Surefire way to make it so that nobody takes your orders anymore, even with all of your limbs." He looks up, face grim. "If anybody asks, you did something very painful and very medical to me, got it? That's why I screamed."

His back is still turned to Lucio, but Ilya smiles to himself. The statement is forward looking - the first of those he'd heard since Lucio woke. Good sign. "Of course. Very awful. Practically sadistic."

"Horrible. I hope you enjoyed it, little doctor. You can tell them I claimed I could do it without a stick to bite on and then couldn't. You had to... what's unpleasant enough? Rather, what's unpleasant enough and really doesn't sound like you bit off my dick?"

"I'll, um, come up with something." Julian fetches a couple of towels from a stack in the corner of the room. "I want to change your bandages first."

"What horrible things could you do to me, Jules?" Lucio muses aloud, just to keep himself busy, trying to ignore the pain of getting rid of the blood-soaked and dried linen. He seems to have decided that bad jokes were preferable to his real feelings for now.

The incision doesn't look as bad as it had, but far from good, red and swollen, still it isn’t seeping pus anymore.

"Well, uh, using alcohol to clean out a wound stings like a motherfucker. Cauterization is a classic. Lancing isn't usually that bad, but it's not exactly pleasant. Could make another attempt to dig out one of the pieces of shrapnel we had to leave behind."

"We left shrapnel behind? Because this isn't enough of a memento? How nice for us." Lucio tries to raise the stump enough to ease the boy's work. "But cauterizing sounds nice and accurate, don't you think? Dramatic enough?"

"Oh, yeah. I can even elaborate a little. Only thing I had at hand was an iron skillet. Will that do?” He quiets for a moment, even as his hands continue the process of cleaning and rebandaging Lucio's stump. "And, yes, there were four pieces that were too dangerous to try to take out. So four extra souvenirs. Unless, of course, one broke up further." Or if they had missed something. That happened too.

"What's the worst that can happen?" The question is serious.

Julian pauses and bites his lip. "They were too dangerous to attempt to take about because we'd have risked hitting a major artery or an organ. Worst case scenario: the shrapnel moves on its own and creates the damage itself."

"So I'll bleed to death within a few minutes? That's something to look forward to then, Ah!" A sharp hiss passes through his teeth as the kid's fingers touched the wrong spot. "Best case would be, I sometimes feel them a bit when under the weather?"

"Cold isn't going to be your friend." Ilya tucks the loose end of the bandage in. "I would recommend avoiding the south. I mean, someone might be able to remove them later, under better surgical conditions, but..."

"Ha!" A grim laugh. The advice seems to have hit a spot. "Horrible place anyway. Would advise anyone against going."

"Well, not too much of a problem, um, not a problem at all for you then." Ilya rearranges the buckets, setting one at Lucio's feet. "Lean over. I'll get your hair."

Ilya always thought the Commander's hair is eye catching, shining like the sun itself, and perfectly ruffled. It made him stand out among the soldiers who mostly kept their hair cropped close to avoid the trouble of keeping it up and, to be honest, avoid the lice. When Lucio bows down low to follow his request, there is a little unexpected twist somewhere deep in Ilya's stomach he couldn't quite place. It isn't the first time he helped someone with bathing, of course not, but something about the Commander being the Commander changed things.

He kneels down for the sake of practicality (or so he told himself). His height would be a problem otherwise, hunching him over awkwardly. But something about kneeling just seemed  _ right _ . It sends a little thrum of pleasure through him. He doesn't know how to parse it into words, but for once, he is able to let words go and live in the motions of pouring water through the Commander's hair, working lather through it, and the feeling of the other man's scalp under his fingers.

Soon after he starts his little impromptu massage, Lucio was almost purring. Not what he expected, apparently, but pleasant nonetheless. Small movements of his head follow the hands in his hair, get a little more a little longer.

Ilya works on the task far more time than actually needed. It’s the first time he'd heard something from Lucio that wasn't a pained noise. And he feels . . . Well, he wasn't sure of the words. Needed? Useful? Neither was quite right. It doesn't particularly matter, he likes it anyway. He decides it’s a bit like petting a big, dangerous cat, one that was docile for now but could still easily rip you apart, and the way the mercenary moves under his caressing hands added to the metaphor with each tiny shift of long, elegant muscle under pale skin.

Ilya shakes his head - as if waking from a trance - and rinses out Lucio's hair. He works his fingers through it a last few times, making sure he gets all the soap out, then gently pushes the Commander upright. One hand on the man's right shoulder, the other lower on his chest, trying to avoid the tender flesh of his left shoulder.

Lucio is a bit flushed, from his head hanging low for so long, and his eyes open slowly.

"Shall I try to take care of the rest on my own or do you want to help?"

"I've got it." Ilya's voice is low, nearly a whisper. He wraps a towel around Lucio's head and scrunches the fabric to dry his hair. His face seems impossibly close to the Commander's, and his arms seem like the boundaries of a smaller, safer world. When the Commander's hair is merely damp, Ilya sits back on his heels, breaking the circle, and lowers his eyes. "Uh, would you like to wash up a bit. I mean, while there's warm water."

"You'll have to give me a hand on the good side there. Bit hard to reach like this." He taps on the right side of his chest. It would be doable, of course it would, eventually it would have to be, but it . . . it would be easier with some help, and this he is the Commander after all. Maybe wash his back too, while he was at it, just to get another anatomy lesson  _ in vivo _ .

Besides, he has already sponged the worst if the sweat and grime off Lucio. The Commander has been passed out from fever and drugs at the time, and this is hardly a new task. Still, it felt  _ different _ . No matter. If the Commander isn't complaining, Ilya won't either. He soaks the already damp towel in water and rubs the bar of soap on it, working up a dilute lather.

Lucio stretches luxuriously, tucks his hand behind his neck and keeps it there, leaving the boy plenty of room to work. Washing his hair seemed to have been a good idea, he’s slowly getting back to his old self, which Ilya had almost despaired of. The improved mood is a good thing.

His chest is a study of anatomy, defined muscles underneath the barest layer of skin and fat. The shrapnel wounds on his left side have mostly healed; Ilya had removed the sutures from the worst a few days before, but he works gingerly around them, not wanting to cause any further pain.

"Where are those that will kill me, kid?"

There isn't that much of an age difference between them, but Ilya felt it too. He’s still relatively innocent in things of war, and the added years of all those weigh heavy on the Commander's shoulders.

Ilya touches the flesh around one of the smaller scars. "Here." Then a place on the Commander's back just above his kidney. And finally, one in his thigh. It doesn't occur to Jules to think about the placement of the scar, just inside Lucio's thigh, until his hand is already there, and he feels more blood rushing to his cheeks at the almost inappropriate contact. Just a clinical answer to a question, he tries to remind himself.

"Great." Lucio's hand comes down to lay on the young doctor's. Pushed down. "So I might either die of blood loss from that one or just lose the use of that leg? That's something to look forward to." Like any good butcher, he knows the parts relevant to his job.

"Umm." Ilya looks up, debating whether he should try to free his hand then decides against it. "Bleeding out is more likely." Even if a surgeon got to the leg in time, high thigh amputations have a very high mortality rate. The bone is too large, too thick with marrow, and bled itself. Disarticulation sometimes works, but he didn't want to put that image in Lucio's head. Honestly, he prefers to keep it out of his own.

"Nerve. Running here." The mercenary pokes. "Had a man who got an arrow in here. We thought he'd die, but it missed the blood vessels. Still, he couldn't fight after that anymore, or properly walk. Leg gave way every time he put weight on it."

Ilya files the information away for later and nods. Lucio's hand is almost immediately back on his. He should feel uncomfortable, but his feelings didn't match with the cognition.

"Want me to make sure you get one of the dead from the other side so your mentor can show you a few things? If he's teaching you his trade, he might as well do it properly when it's not all about getting things done as fast as possible. And I . . ." His eyes light up, "I still can show you how to fight, at least well enough to get you through bad times."

"I know the basics,” Ilya mumbles. "At least with a sword." Still, the Commander had looked interested in something for the first time in days, and Ilya doesn't know more than the very basics Mazelinka drilled into him during her visits. He’d never made it to running any drills with the rest of the fighting company. The surgeon had jerked him out of the line almost as soon as Ilya had signed his name to roll, declared him too young to get blown apart the next day, but old enough to deal with the clean up if he was going to insist on it. He sometimes wondered if the old man knew Mazelinka, and she had somehow gotten him to mitigate Ilya's poor adolescent life choices. "But you could teach me more." As for a corpse, he wants to say no. Even an anonymous enemy was still someone. But he knows how useful it would be, how much better of a surgeon it would make him to know how pieces went together, instead of just how to take them apart efficiently. "And sometime. Yes."

All of a sudden, the hand over Ilya’s is missing. Around his jaw instead, gently forcing him to look into those impossibly light eyes. "The basics will only get you killed, boy. You got reach, and long legs. We'll go for disabling and running first, and see if you're willing to  _ hurt _ someone after that." A kiss is planted on Ilya's forehead, lips rough as the hand and surrounded by stubble.

He heard that Lucio sometimes took a liking to someone and decided to cherish them as long as they amused him, yet never witnessed one of those poor souls or asked what exactly this  _ cherishing _ included.

Even though a shiver runs through him and he lowers his gaze, Ilya doesn't pull away. Lucio's thumb runs over his cheek. The touch of callused fingers isn't unwelcome, just different from the camp followers and barmaids that had touched Ilya’s face like that in the past. Stronger. Assertive. "Yes." Lucio's voice is low. "Have to make sure this handsome face stays intact."

The chuckle that followed breaks the spell. "Ah, I'm keeping you from your work, boy. I'm sorry. Back into position."

And that is what he did, sit upright again, allowing Ilya to do what he is supposed to.

* * *

Lucio is surprisingly cooperative from that point. He ate without complaint. And once the sun went down, let Ilya find him a cloak to wear outside.

He hid under it first, but then, after a look downward, rather went for dramatic drapery instead. "Do I still look like a  _ commander _ , Jules? Impressive enough?"

Ilya looks him up and down, then rearranges the cloak to the side to leave Lucio's intact right arm uncovered. "Yes." A hesitant pause. "Commander."

That earns him a wide grin and a ruffle through his short red curls. "Your arm,  _ doctor _ ." Lucio offers his own like he would to a lady.

Another pause. Part of Julian likes the idea of taking Lucio's arm. Another part wishes he had spent more time discovering what happened to the Commander's favorites. And a third rationalized everything under the rubric if doing what he needs to in order to get the man outside.

Lucio’s legs are still shaky, but this time he is at least  _ trying _ , which is a big improvement over the last few days. Falling flat on the ground probably won’t help his confidence. That’s reason enough to take his arm.

Outside, a very slight rain had made at least a few of those who'd usually sit around the fires and drink disappear. Lucio’s men are an unruly, colorful bunch, but then, that is what is expected of mercenaries, and Lucio is not willing to disappoint a paying customer. He tilts back his head to feel the rain on his skin, remembering that there is life out here, and that it goes on with or without, and he bares his teeth.  _ How can it be allowed to do that _ ?

"C'mon, Doc, I need a  _ drink _ ."

Doc - not exactly accurate, but Ilya likes it anyway. He is less sure about the wisdom of combining alcohol with opium, even at the lower concentrations that he had gotten Lucio down to. But there wouldn't be any arguing with Lucio though; the Commander is back, at least for a few minutes.

They join the men at one of the fires, and for the first time Julian feels welcome among them. They greet their commander with rough cordiality and a share of their drink, relief visible in their dirty faces. Nobody asks him what happened. They  _ know _ , and instead of the usual litany of sympathy they might supply a comrade with, their talk is a mixture of the current situation and the last wench they had, and for a brief moment, when nobody is looking, Lucio grabs the boy's hand and presses it hard. He seems  _ happy _ , even if his hand is too hot and his pupils too large, and he probably shouldn't have had the last two swigs of whatever it was they served him.

He makes small talk for longer than Ilya had expected him to manage. Unfortunately, he continues drinking from the common flask that is being passed about. Ilya took a single drink during one circuit. It burned down his throat, fire with no other flavor, and he coughed as he passed the bottle along.

"I think," Lucio says suddenly, as he was about to drink again, "I may have less blood to thin right now than I used to have." He blinks and gingerly hands the vile stuff to the next one. "The honorable gentlemen will excuse me . . ." He stumbles as he tries to get up.

A sudden silence sinks over the fire.  _ No, the commander was still not well. _ One of the soldiers is at his side in a heartbeat, catching his fall and dragging him upright. "C'mon, boss, let's get you to bed."

"T'is my text!" The blond protests halfheartedly, trying his best to stand upright.

"Didn't think I was your type, boss." The others snicker. Anything to make it easier on the Commander. On all of them.

Ilya sees Lucio wince as the soldier catches the stump of his arm by mistake and cringes himself, both in recognition of how much that would hurt and in fear that the bump would cause the half healed stitches to pull. He catches Lucio’s good arm and holds him up. "I've got him."

"Need help with him?"

"I've got it." Ilya has been moving living and dead bodies around for the better part of three years, and anyway, Lucio still has a decent portion of his weight on his own feet.

"He's gonna be okay?" The man has come close enough to whisper as he made sure Lucio's arm was firm around the redhead's shoulders.

Julian manages a smile as he tightened his arm around Lucio's back. "Think so. Stubborn, that's generally a good thing."

"I'll pray for him." A pat on Lucio's back as he distances himself again. "Boss is trying to understand women better, that's why he started drinking like a girl!" Another round of laughter accompanies them as they stumble their way back to the tent.

"Jules?" Lucio whimpers. "I think I'm gonna be sick soon..."

"It's okay." Ilya doubts they'd make it back to the tent. There's a grouping of trees nearby, quiet and dark. It'll do.

What had come in went out, pretty fast and violently in this case, the mercenary's body wisely rebelling against what he had just put into it. It’s still enough to leave him drunk, but at least his liver won't have to put up with all of it.

Lucio leans heavily against one of the trees, trying to breathe through the worst. He is used to being drunk, it had just been a long time since he couldn't stomach it.

"Why didn't you stop me, Jules?" A little whine that sounds only half-serious.

"Would you have listened?" Ilya gives him another minute or so before grabbing his good arm again and helping him to straighten up. "Water and bed next."

"Yes! No . . . Well, maybe, you're my doctor after all." He could chuckle again. The worst seems to be over, and he drags himself closer to the boy's high chest then strictly necessary. "Was nice though, right? My men . . ." Some pride in that word -  _ my _ .

"They needed to see you."

"Make sure I'm still alive." A severe nod. Then in a softer voice. "Glad you made me go."

"We'll step out again tomorrow. Maybe in the afternoon?”

"We can try."

Ilya pushes the tent flaps open and guides Lucio in. He had been shifting more and more of his weight to Ilya and nearly collapsed onto the bed, only barely managing to remain sitting upright.

Ilya fills a cup with water and holds it out to Lucio as more of an order than an offer.

The Commander drinks in careful sips. While he was thirsty and trying to get the acidic taste out of his mouth, he is also trying to be reasonable, even if it was a little late for that.

Then he just dropped onto his good side. "Jules? I hate being so  _ weak _ ."

"You're recovering." Ilya pauses for a moment then sits down beside the bed. He doesn't think hovering over Lucio will improve the man's mood, and he is always self conscious of how his height can intimidate people whether he means to or not. Also, he thinks, as he leans his head back on the edge of the mattress, he is really bloody tired after nearly two weeks of minimal sleep.

"Maybe you should stay here for the night. Just in case I get worse." The suggestion is gentle enough to sound reasonable.  _ Innocent _ . Ilya thinks he feels a hand in his hair which might add another shade of meaning - or might just be the understandable behavior of a man who is usually the center of attention and had been doing without. Anyway, he’s too tired to try to figure it out.

"Lucio." Ilya runs his hand over his face. "When I've slept, I've been wrapped up in a blanket in the corner." He shouldn't be surprised the Commander hadn't noticed. After all, Ilya only tried to sleep when Lucio himself was out cold. And when there weren't other things to be done. "Damn blanket isn't even long enough to cover my shoulders and my feet at the same time."

A moment of silence.

"I meant  _ here _ , boy. Easily big enough for three."

That might be an overstatement, but for two, certainly. Rank has its benefits. As beds in the camp went, Lucio's is opulent: a thick mattress of straw, topped off with a layer of felted wool and cotton. Maybe not feathers and goose down with silk sheets, but infinitely better than a blanket on the floor.

"I don't know." Something of a lie, Ilya wants to crawl into  _ any _ bed and sleep for a day or two or more, but also true. The Commander has him confused, and he is tired, and he doesn't like it, and what little emotional energy he has left is getting burnt up trying to soothe the other's insecurity. So, no, he doesn't know.

"Grab your blanket and one of mine and get your bony ass in here, boy. That's an order." It indeed sounds like one, the right tone for ordering people around fully ingrained in the commander’s vocal repertoire.

Ilya's too tired to even wonder about it, much less argue it. And so he fetches a blanket for Lucio and spreads it over him before wrapping himself up in his own as best he can and laying down on the Commander's bed.

The other drags a part of his own blanket over him too, a considerably heavier, warmer one, but remains on his back otherwise, no errant hand searching for warmth.

"Sleep tight, little doctor," he mumbles.

Maybe being ordered to sleep helps. For once in his life, Ilya is out the moment his eyes closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be more awkwardness and some smut.

“Do you think this is far enough away?” Julian doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He is very happy that Lucio feels strong enough to hike back through the forest and away from the rest of the camp, hunting for a suitable clearing to practice in. If teaching Ilya how to use a sword will get him up and moving, well then, Ilya is all for it. But it is also the case that practice swords weigh significantly more than the branches he and Pasha used to run at each other with. Lucio has his own practice weapon, plus a rather deadly looking dagger. If he stumbles once or twice from having not entirely readjusted his balance, well, that is still nothing to judge. Or rather to judge as anything less than entirely impressive.

"Ha! Is the good doctor scared of the cripple? One can rarely be more out of shape than me, don't you think?" He marches a circle on the clearing, testing the ground, a cat preparing her resting ground. Nods, in the end. This meets his requirements. "You've said you have your own experiences as a swordsman. Show me your stance then!"

A strange dance follows as Lucio tries to find a pose that looks sufficiently martial while also being comfortable enough to hold it for a while. First it is the sword over his shoulders, but without a second arm he’s thrown off balance. Then the swordpoint on the ground in front of him, with both hands on the hilt - no. That doesn't work at all, and he curses. _How is he supposed to look impressive like this?_ Just carrying it over his shoulder doesn't look voguish enough, and, as for crossing his arms over his chest while it was still in the scabbard, there was one essential part missing. He ends up just sitting down, the sword over his knees. He deserves a break anyway. That is what Lucio had wanted all along. A break from the limited options of hiding in his tent or having all eyes on him while he figures out just what he can and can’t do.

Ilya holds his sword out in front of him, placing his feet the way Mazelinka had shown him. At least, he hopes so. It has been a year or two since he had practiced, and with the Commander watching, he feels self conscious blood rising in his cheeks.

"Too much weight on the front leg. Try standing more evenly first, for maximum movement. Way too stiff in the hips. Shake them a bit, to loosen up!"

Ilya tries to comply, feeling a level of awkwardness that he can’t describe in any of the handful of languages he’s picked up, then readjusts his weight, placing more on his back leg.

"Can you dance, Jules?" Lucio watches him with the kind of smile usually reserved for a puppy that hasn’t quite figured out how to walk yet..

"Um, some." Nevivon mostly keeps to circle dances, and Ilya had never been particularly good at them. He had always been growing too tall, too fast to keep up with where his feet were at any given moment. Even while walking. Portia and her little friends had gotten plenty of laughs from watching him trip over air and fall on his face as a teenager. Never mind dancing.

The Commander jumps up, leaving the sword on the ground. Steps behind Ilya and drags him close, Ilya’s hips somewhere above Lucio’s own. "Close your eyes, boy. Just feel my body and try to move with me, okay?"

Body. Yes. It is a body, a lean, muscular one, warm through the fabric of their clothes, and the strong arm holds him so pleasantly tight, and . . .

"Relax, Jules. This is gonna be fun."

Fun? Fun may not be the right word, but Ilya is confused about what the word would be. An enjoyable tremor runs through him, and Lucio laughs softly in his ear. This dance starts with a soft swaying of the hips, side to side, trying to get the stiffness out of Ilya’s lanky body. He feels his thoughts dropping down from his brain to his throat, and then even lower into his chest, his stomach, and without noticing until it was done, he leans back against the Commander.

"Good boy," Lucio chuckles, his breath hot against Julian's neck. From side to side, and circles and eights then, Lucio's hand firm on the bony hip, guiding the motions, wanting him to let go of his stiffness. Ilya shivers again at the praise. He closes his eyes, sinking into the movement, into the feeling of the arm around his chest, of being supported, if just slightly so. He feels how the other slowly takes himself back, willing to follow what he offers but correcting, if necessary. The feeling of this kind of physicality was new and different, communication that needs no words. His head tilts back and his lips drop open just slightly. He feels a little lost - lost in his skin and bones. Usually endlessly circling thoughts keep him trapped, but at least within those he's oriented. Whatever it is he feels now, not so much. Disorientation. 

Another motion is introduced, the shoulders slowly joining in, and by now, his body understands what he's supposed to do, even if his conscious mind just gave up in confusion. Being smooth like this is nothing that's usually in his range, but it does feel so nice, and Lucio's comforting hums tell him he's doing well. And it's important, absurdly important, that he's doing well even if he can’t exactly explain why. The small sounds of approval in his ear sooth him as much as the movement. He hears himself whine when Lucio lets go of him and steps back shortly, giving Ilya time to readjust his weight before letting go entirely, so that he doesn't topple backwards.

"Show me again, boy. Keep your eyes closed. Feel the ground you're standing on and find a way to stand that feels right."

Ilya shifts his weight from foot to foot trying to find something that feels stable. He finally settles on a position. Behind him, Lucio clicks his tongue then sets a hand on Ilya’s hip and pulls it back, just slightly.

"Better."

Not good, but ‘better’ is something at least, and that recognition gives Ilya somewhat of a rush, one that drowns out the beginning of the next sentence that ends in "-- with parrying, yeah?"

"I, uh, didn't catch that . . . Sorry." He feels more color rising in his cheeks and his mood sinks a bit at the idea of being a disappointment now. "Parrying?"

"That's what we should start with.” Lucio pats his shoulder, fingertips lingering on Ilya’s neck. “Parrying and dodging. We'll see what suits you more. Pick up your sword."

Lucio leaves to get his own sword, slightly too heavy to consistently be held with one hand, but he’ll manage - he has to at some point, and gets in position in front of Jules, cracking a grin. "We'll start slowly. Child's play."

"Sure, uh, okay." Ilya tries to review what Mazelinka had taught him when she caught him and Pasha fighting with sticks. But the main thing that stands out in his memory - at least in this moment - is that when she'd gotten them back to the house she'd had Lilinka give them pies for 'trying their best.'

He waits a moment, not sure if Lucio intends to move first or not, then sweeps the practice sword in an arc in front of him. Lucio bats it aside easily enough, even if there's a moment where he seems to over balance on one foot without the weight of his left arm to offset the movement.

"Again!" Being not quite on point makes Lucio angry, and for a few strikes he forgets that his primary intention is to teach before holding himself back and not pushing the boy too hard. Again, and again, and again, sometimes dancing out of the way, sometimes raising his sword to deflect the blow, better mood slowly creeping back on his features as he notices that he indeed still can do it, that his muscle memory just needs to adjust a bit, but at least this part will be fine.

Ilya doesn't manage to get a hit in, not that he is especially surprised by that. After a few strikes, Lucio starts to push back against him. Slowly, Ilya recognizes that Lucio isn't moving with anything near the full speed he is his capable of, allowing time for Ilya to spot where the strike is intended to land and to get his own sword in the way of it.

That is the theory at least. Ilya catches a blow in front of him, but steps back too far and falls hard on his ass. The commander's sword is at his throat out of old habit the second afterwards, metal cool against the pale skin.

"And this, Jules, is what we want to avoid. Because this is what gets you killed. We don't want that, right?"

Still, the blade doesn't leave his throat, and there's something like delight carved into the blond's face as he watches the boy down there, lips trembling in fear and excitement.

Ilya freezes. Should he try to move back a little? Stay as still as possible? Which kind of predator is Lucio? The blades are blunt, but not that blunt. And . . . he feels the cool metal against his throat as he gulps down a breath. And something about this, being completely at the mercy of the man standing over him . . . He doesn't actually want to move.

Suddenly the blade is gone, and Lucio delivers a light, friendly kick to his side. "Get up, boy. Enough of a break. You barely broke a sweat."

Ilya scrambles to his feet and brushes the dirt off the seat of his pants. The process repeats itself. Lucio dispenses corrections, peppered with occasional praise, but every few minutes Ilya finds himself back on the ground, looking up at Lucio's cocky grin.

"You seem to like it down there, kid," he comments after what may be the twentieth or the fiftieth fall for all Ilya knows. Everything hurts, and Lucio kneels down on him, pinning him in place with a knee on his sternum like successfully hunted prey, doesn't improve that. "Got enough for the day?"

"I, uh, I could -" It's hard to breathe with a knee on his chest, but Lucio seems to understand the lie he is attempting to tell and just laughs. Ilya drops his head against the ground. "I'm done. For the day."

"Get up then."

Lucio even helps pull him off the ground, dragging him in for a hug and a slap on the back that says: _Well done, kid. Well done._

Every single muscle in Ilya's body screams the next morning, but Lucio is already awake and mostly dressed and grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse. And so each morning went for the next three weeks, until Ilya can keep from being knocked down for at least ten minutes on a consistent basis, and Lucio no longer needs to constantly correct his own balance.

There is a subtle shift among the other mercenaries. Each day they returned to camp with Ilya bruised and aching, they treated him a bit . . . not better, but more like one of their own. He notices it only when he becomes the target of one of their rough pranks, one that includes a bucket and old intestines, and when he manages to dodge the bloody thing, narrowly, he earns some friendly punches against his shoulder. Even more bruises. Oh well. Those are just part of life now.

The surgeon is the only one who doesn't seem impressed, grumbling that the only halfway competent assistant he is stolen all morning and sent back too bruised to be much good at all in the afternoon, and what - did they expect that he'd live forever? They'll be sorry if he drops dead tomorrow, and they are left with a half trained replacement. But he hands Ilya a salve for the bruises anyway, then sends him to fetch more water.

One morning it isn't Lucio who woke him, but the grumpy old man himself.

"Got a present from the Commander. Let's use it as long as it's still fresh."

Ilya isn’t entirely sure what he expected, but a dead human male with a recently slit throat hadn't been high on the list. The surgeon pulls a dog eared anatomy text out of one of the chests for reference, and the rest of that day is spent meticulously breaking down the corpse while a rotating audience of fascinated and slightly scandalized soldiers look on.

Their little audience grows very silent when it comes to the regenerative organs then groan in unison when the two little marbles are taken out of their pouch, suffering for the dead man. It isn’t as if they’d never cut it off in the heat of the battle or when torture was necessary, but this feels . . . different. Dead like this the man isn't an enemy anymore - could as well be a brother.

"Should've set up curtains." The old man grouses. "But I don't suppose you'll have to contend with them bothering you in ways you don't want now that they're seen just what you can do with a knife."

At some point near the middle of the afternoon, Lucio appears, cape flowing around him, looking very pleased with the experiment and probably with himself for making it happen.

"So, Jules, did you learn a thing or two?" His grin is possessive - an owner fetching his pet back from the trainer.

Ilya is covered in blood up to his elbows, he's fairly sure there's some on his face, and he's feeling extremely satisfied with the process of matching up the actual tactile reality with the diagrams in the anatomy book. He suspects that nausea will kick in later, once instinct takes back over from curiosity, but it will have been worth it. More than worth it. "Several things."

"Bloodied and bruised is a good look on you." Lucio’s sharklike grin sets Ilya on edge, because there is some promise behind those teeth.

The old surgeon groans. "I still need him, you know?"

"I won't break him, but a few scratches will do him no harm."

"A few? Ha. At least take care of his hands and his eyes, he'll need those."

"Don't worry. I like him in one piece." Lucio shouts an order to two of the men to bury _what's left of that poor bastard_. "Come, Jules, you don't get out of practice because you spent the morning butchering a body."

Ilya dunks his hands in a bucket of blood stained water. He'd liked a minute to wash somewhat properly, but Lucio didn't seem to be in the mood for waiting. He shakes the water off his hands and ran after the Commander.

"I was musing, Jules. Since you lost your virginity today, cutting your first guy open, you deserve a present to remember this fateful day. Was thinking something fitting for the occasion. Something from my very personal collection. How does that sound, mh? Would you like that?"

Ilya thinks about protesting that he's cut men open before, more than once actually, just not as systematically as today. But that will accomplish nothing except spoiling the narrative that Lucio has formed in his head. And he seems far too pleased with having arranged for a proper dissection for Ilya to contradict him. "Your personal collection?"

"Your own blade, silly! It's about time, and over the years I kept quite a few beauties. We can find you one you like."

"That's, um, that's generous."

"You deserve it, boy. And it will make training way more interesting!"

Ilya isn't entirely sure how he feels about training with an actual sharpened blade. He knows he has improved, but he also knows that if real weapons and real intent are involved he'd die several times over on any given day.

Lucio's smile remains but doesn't reach his eyes anymore. "You don't have to use it now, of course, but at least get accustomed with its weight. Just in case." The commander seems disappointed that his gift didn't spark as much joy as he had hoped, but he isn't yet willing to give up.

"No, you're right, of course, thank you." It's very generous. Ilya understands that. Most of the men carry plain steel weaponry. In some cases ones old enough that the blades have been sharpened to the point that they barely exist anymore. Every piece Lucio carries, by contrast, is as much art as armament.

Lucio looks at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, then shakes his head. "You're just not a killer, are you, Jules?"

Ilya isn't sure how he's supposed to respond much less what the answer to the question is actually. "I, um, I don't . . ."

"It's fine, kid." Arm around his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek reassures Ilya that Lucio isn’t upset with him. "We'll find you something to bring out your eyes then."

The Commander's collection is indeed something to behold. Ilya always wondered what is in the locked chest in Lucio's tent, and why it is such a heavy construction, but now he knows. Wrapped in flashy red velvet there's a vast array of beautifully crafted weapons, blades mostly, but two crossbows, a sickle and a few exotic ones he can't quite make heads or tails of among them. Lucio lies them out at his feet, like an offering to a visiting dignitary, pride radiating off him like water from a lotus leaf.

Art doesn't do just to the weapons spread out before him. They're ornate, some close to garish, but to Ilya's untrained eye, not a single one looks like it's less deadly than beautiful. He lifts a broad, gently curving blade that's roughly as long as his arm and inscribed with something in a foreign alphabet. Lucio smiles and laughs softly. "That's not the right one for you, kid. Not unless you're planning to get a horse, join the cavalry, and ride down anyone who looks at you wrong. Beautiful though, isn't it?"

"It is." The grip is wrapped in gold wire, enamel work filling in whorls and gaps in the pattern. The surface of the blade looks like oil floating on water - intricate and finely grained pattern within the steel itself, not simply a decorative finish.

"You may want something a little bit shorter, that's easy to carry and draw in close quarters. A city boy, after all."

Ilya sets aside the blade and surveys the rest of Lucio's collection, more than a little overwhelmed by the options. There's a series of daggers about the length of his forearm, most with elaborate jeweled hilts. The embarrassment of riches makes one blade stand out all the more for it's deceptive simplicity: a black handle and sheath worked with a fine silver pattern. The weight feels 'right' somehow when he drew the narrow polished blade. He glances over to Lucio, trying to gauge from the commander’s face if this was the right sort of blade for him.

"That one I got of an alchemist. Well, she called herself that, but her trade was mainly in poisons, and potent ones at that. She had several daggers, but that was the only one made from metal. She may deal in poison and blades made of glass, but I've never tried to be so discreet. I only wish she'd been as true as she was beautiful."

Ilya wonders if the blade was poisoned, but not as much as he wonders at kicks comments about truth and beauty. "As true?"

"Oh, she made promises she was very not intent on keeping. I might have let her flee with some of her things and some of my money, but she had to try to kill me, and . . ." He shrugs. "I don't take kindly to that."

"I see." Ilya can't imagine being foolish enough to try and kill Lucio, or how badly that must have turned out for the woman.

"Does it feel like it belongs in your hands, Jules? Is it a good weight?" Lucio watches him like he had watched Ilya’s first attempts to properly move, benevolent, but somehow hungry.

Ilya tests the knife, letting it balance on his open palm. It does feel like it belongs in his hand. He nods and sheathes the blade. With a smile and a wink, he held the dagger near his face. "Does it bring out my eyes?"

"Storm over the sea - perfectly matched. Not too bad. I'll have a shirt in that color made for you when we're back in a proper Town." Lucio's eyes are heavy, and for a moment, something hung between them again, heavy and sticky as honey and equally sweet.

Ilya doesn't know what to do with that something - whether he should lean into it, or back out, or speak, or keep very quiet. And so he closes his eyes.

"You see, my sweet boy -" He feels Lucio's breath wandering over his cheek towards his mouth. "I just love that you know so well how fragile life is . . ." A sudden coldness presses against his throat, right over the artery, and Ilya freezes in place. ". . . always so very hesitant. Shy." The lips pressing against Ilya’s pulse are fire on skin still salty with sweat and blood.

He holds his breath as the cold metal traced along his throat, followed by Lucio's lips. Then the metal is gone, and he can feel Lucio's face close to his and breathe again. Maybe one breath, at least, enough to whisper. "Commander..."

"My dearest little Jules..."

The idea of a kiss on the corner of his mouth, so very faintly it might as well be the touch of a ghost.

Ilya turns his head without opening his eyes, letting his mouth brush against the others. He's not surprised, not really. He isn't stupid. But fumbling around with barmaids in alleys isn't this. He doesn't have a script for this. And he wants it. Wants it enough that he doesn't want to fuck it up with his inevitable awkwardness.

Sharp teeth dig into his lower lip ever so gently, just to tease, not to hurt, and without looking he knows that grin is on Lucio's face, that damn irresistible grin, just a hint of it. Ilya feels a shiver creep up his spine and along his shoulders. As the tremble passed into his fingers, he drops the knife and just barely hears Lucio's low laugh.

"On your knees, boy." A sharpness in the voice that is usually reserved for those who dared to oppose him, but Lucio's hand ran gently down the Ilya’s sternum; things are very much alright.

The order - the welcome clarity of being told what to do - sweeps through him, and Ilya scrambles to comply, opening his eyes just for a moment to make sure that he doesn't fall on face on the floor.

A touch under his chin corrects his posture, and tilts his face upward. The Commander is not willing to bow down to him too low, and why should he be?

Again the cold touch of metal dances over his features, steel drawing lines on his forehead, his cheeks. The blade comes to rest against his lips. The slightest impact. _Open up._

His jaw drops open, just enough that he can touch the tip of his tongue to the knife. Ilya’s eyes flutter open. Lucio's mouth curves into that smirk, that one he saves for when he was particularly amused or pleased with someone. Ilya is suddenly very aware of his hands, that he wants to touch - maybe the muscles of Lucio's thighs - but he isn't sure that he should, and he settles for resting them on his knees.

"This is not your first time, is it, Jules?" Voice so low, so sweet, so soft that it scares him.

"Not exactly." He feels a blush rising in his cheeks as he says the words.

"But you've never been taken, mh?" The caress of the blade is exchanged again for the warmth of fingertips. No hesitation, but an unexpected sympathy.

"No." His eyes drop and he tilts his head to the side, seeking more of Lucio's touch than just his fingertips. "Haven't been with a man before."

"And it's strange and a bit scary?" A steady push against his chest. _Lie down. Relax._

He sinks backwards under Lucio's touch, losing his balance - what is up and what is down? His weight lands on his elbows, as the blood flows from his face to his chest, and lower yet.

Lucio follows, but not to lie down. For a few, breathless moments it is like back then on the clearing, Lucio's knee heavy on his chest, but then, probably quite aware now of the reaction he causes, he straddles Ilya like one of the girls might, but because it is him, and because Ilya was so very aware how many he had killed with ease, how horribly superior the Commander is, it feels more like being conquered than anything else, and the feeling is so . . . He lacks the proper word, because the presence his mind needs to be sharp is gone elsewhere, and settled for good. Very, very good.

"You are sure about this, Jules?" The question comes unexpectedly. There’s no doubt in the words, just a gentle request for agreement.

Ilya nods and his breath leaves his body in a shuddering gasp. He isn't sure, exactly, or rather he's not sure of exactly what he's supposed to be sure about. He isn't even sure that he trusts Lucio, and maybe that is part of what he feels. Though the only word that he can find is good. _Good_. And he just wants to stay lost in it.

The first proper kiss follows soon after that. Lucio covers Ilya’s eyes with his hand, the taut body hard against the boy's. He is surprisingly slow, careful - an experienced man willing to give his new lover the chance to change his mind, to escape.

Ilya lifts his head, trying to catch more of Lucio's mouth in his. His arm curls up, finding the hard muscles of Lucio's back, his bicep, and clinging to it. Solid. Stable. Lucio almost loses balance for a moment, trying to rest some of his weight on an arm that's no longer there and Ilya holds his good arm just a touch tighter and catches a hand under his left side.

"Have I allowed you that, boy? Hands behind your head!" An order instead of the curse that was about to follow. Lucio hadn't thought about that yet. All those things that won't be possible between the sheets anymore, how he often enough felt that even two hands weren't enough, but with just one? Oh well. He’ll make do. He always does, and the boy is a good training ground.

There's a moment of confusion on Ilya’s part. Had he messed up? No. Not badly, at least. There still isn't any real sharpness in the other's voice, and his hand hadn't left Ilya's face. A thumb soothes along Ilya's cheekbone, reassuring, as he let go of Lucio and tucks his hands behind his head.

In the twilight of the tent, the Commander just looked at him, far too long to still feel pleasant, and far too intensely, like he is studying a map for an upcoming battle. He starts with small pecks on Ilya’s cheeks then, over his chin, over his neck and down to his chest, the light stubble of a day without shave tickling horribly - wonderfully, and Jules tries his best not to laugh, because this is serious, and he's hard and it's Lucio of all people, but the blond notices and stays at those spots where Jules can barely keep from squirming, and he chuckles against the pale skin, allowing the doctor to follow the sensations.

To follow, and to just be in, and it's so, so hard because Ilya has never liked to stay too long in what he felt from moment to moment. Stay too long in an awkward body that he was always, forever, tripping over. So much easier to just escape into words, make someone laugh with a joke before they can judge him too harshly, but right now, words have broken down, and Lucio is just watching him . . .

A giggle escapes his lips, because the other has started to nibble his ear, and yet, he didn't dare to move to escape this torture, doesn’t dare to even want to. The mercenary laughs, briefly kisses his lips with a mumbled ‘finally’ and returns back to his cruel teasing, earning more giggles and some sighs in between, because the hot tongue feels so pleasant and wet and . . . _oh_.

_Oh._

Lucio is enjoying himself, Ilya can feel it clearly, a new hardness pressing against him, or maybe that is just another sword in his pocket, and he can't help but say that aloud. That earns him a laugh and a friendly slap against the cheek, and he finds himself asking “ _another one, Commander, please”_ and before he even realizes the words are leaning his lips, his plea is gladly granted.

The only response he manages to the sting across his cheek is a gasp. He hasn't moved his hands, even though he wants to, wants to grab the other man's hair, and he also definitely does not want to, wants to just not have to make any decisions, not wonder what he is supposed to do, if he is doing it well enough, if . . . if . . . "Please."

"Please _what_?" Another slap, this one less of a tease, slightly more forceful this time. 

"My naughty little puppy . . ."

The next kiss is equal in intensity, deep and long and with teeth biting down on Ilya's tongue, and a cruel little chuckle as he moaned through the pain. _This shouldn't feel so good . . ._

But it does. Another low laugh from Lucio. Nails scrape along Ilya's chest, softly at first then harder and then much harder. Another moan escapes his lips and then there is a hand in his hair pulling his head back roughly, exposing his neck for the other's mouth, for his teeth. And Ilya can't stop himself from burying one hand in that golden hair.

"Tsk. We'll have to work on your discipline, puppy. I'll let it go unpunished this one time, because you're new to this." Tiny harsh bites leave a red trail down to his clavicula, following his sternocleidomastoid. This morning's lesson had stuck.

"Sorry, sorry - oh!" The apology turns into yet another moan. His free hand curls into a first beside his face, nails biting into his palm, as he struggles to not touch Lucio again, caught between that desire and a stranger, stronger compulsion to do as he was told.

"Do you _want_ to touch me, puppy? Because it was what you craved from the very beginning?" Soft kisses on his eyelids now while Lucio's hand closes ever so slightly around his throat.

He squirms beneath the hand on his throat. Not a threat, not really, just a reminder. He tries to reply, blushes when he couldn't manage more than a whine, and nods in answer to Lucio's question.

The blond slides back a bit, far enough so he can sit up, rubbing against the hardness in Ilya's middle. So lean and heavy with muscle, so very _different_ from the bodies he is used to. Exciting, and a bit scary.

"Come here, boy. _Touch me._ "

He reaches out a hand, fingers shaking with nerves. Lucio's eyebrows arch, and Ilya freezes, pulls back his hand under a sudden wave of self consciousness. His lower lip trembles and he bites down on it, looks down, looks back up, and reaches out again, running his hand along Lucio's jaw.

Stubble, so blond it's almost invisible. Ilya knows. He has been allowed to help with shaving, but this was different. The commander cocks his head, just slightly, _coquettish_ , and cracks a smile. "It's alright, puppy. I won't bite, not now. Go on . . ." he whispers, and it always came as a surprise how soothing he could sound when he wants to. Lucio steadied himself on his one arm, leaned back a bit, _offering_ himself to those exploring hands.

Ilya runs a hand down Lucio's chest, lightly, didn't want to upset his balance again. They're both still clothed, Ilya in shirt sleeves and bloodstains and Lucio in a fine white linen shirt. Underneath the thin fabric, Lucio is all hard muscle and angular lines. Powerful. Ilya knew that already. He's been knocked to the ground by the other man multiple times over the past weeks, but knowing and touching are two very different things.

"Help me undress, puppy."

He can do that on his own very well, that the young doctor knew too, but sometimes, he just didn't _want_ to, and now he couldn't help but wonder if it isn't self pity, but just that Lucio liked being touched, being _served_ this way, enchanted the way Ilya had been trying so hard not to look at him as anything but a patient.

This he can do. He unfastens the buttons down the front of Lucio's shirt, fingertips lingering on smooth skin. Unfastens his belt buckle - not the first time he'd done either, buckles still give the Commander trouble - and lets the leather strap fall onto the floor. His hands are underneath Lucio's shirt now, fingers spread out over taut muscles, and Ilya freezes again, unsure what the limits of the direction are, if he should continue or if he has already overstepped.

"This is a _state of disarray_ at best. Do it properly." Lucio lounges in a state of self-love that Ilya can only dream of, an ego so big he has no choice but to believe in it.

Ilya has heard more than one grumble that the Commander is a vainglorious peacock. And somehow the mental image of Lucio as an elaborately feathered bird in need of careful handling to preserve it's ego gives him a little more confidence. He slides his hands up Lucio's chest, pushing the fabric aside, then over his shoulders and to the floor. Leaning in again, he kissed the hollow of Lucio's throat. "Properly? We're in the middle of a mercenary camp." The sudden wave of confidence recedes, and Ilya tacked on a hurried "sir." Might have been too impertinent.

Lucio's laugh rises up from his middle, round and loud and honest. "What better place for it than surrounded by iron and death, Jules? What better place to feel _alive_?"

Ah. That is it. Ilya stripes off his own shirt and tossed the bloody fabric to the side. "I think I misunderstood properly, sir."

"Oh, I was talking about you cutting the clothes of my trembling thighs, so I have a reason to put you in chains later, but . . . I'll find another one, I'm sure." The bright eyes are quick to take in what Ilya had to offer. The doctor had always avoided undressing too much during their training, afraid both of sun and comments about his lanky body, but all he got was a little approving curl of Lucio's lips. _Nice._

He blushes across his cheeks and his chest both from the look and the comments about cutting off clothes and putting people in chains. Putting him in chains. That shouldn't sound good, but it does. But the Commander's thighs are definitely not trembling under his hands, and he feels flustered again. "I, um."

"Jules, my sweet Jules!" Again, Lucio is laughing, and easily topples him over, covering his face with kisses. "Don't be so afraid. Not of me. We'll take it slow for now."

The kisses and laughter relax Ilya, at least a little. "Not afraid of you so much. I mean, not exactly."

"Just of another man's sword when it's unsheathed and ready for battle?"

Of course, all metaphors return to swords with Lucio. "Just don't like not knowing what I'm doing." He closes his eyes. Lucio's hand brushes over his face; the touch is still soothing. "I didn't even realize I was interested in men, and then beyond that, well, um . . ."

Lucio's hand remains on his cheek, just to assure he was there.

"We've all been there once, Jules. Even me. I was a bit younger than you, I think, and pretty drunk, and he . . . well, he forced himself upon me, and I was playing hard to get, and after everything was over, I . . . knew I was into it, including the kinky part, but it could have gone better. Want me to explain how it works in theory first? It's not so very different from ladies, just less slick by nature. If you then decide it's not for you, then that's how it is."

Ilya expected a mocking laugh, maybe flat out rejection, not - not understanding. He reaches up and touches Lucio’s hair, uncomfortable with the story he had been told and anger added itself to the mix of emotions inside. “I mean, I understand the basic mechanics. I’ve been living in this camp for three years, and I grew up in a resort town. You see things. Even with about twenty grannies conspiring to keep you away.” He quiets, fingers still in Lucio’s hair. “But . . . talk me through it. I mean, what you wanna do.”

And that is what Lucio does. How he didn't expect to fuck him now, because he'd be way to clenched up, case in point, but that he wanted to open him up a bit to see how the boy liked it, and to get him off either way. That Lucio surely wouldn't mind to teach him how to properly suck a cock - only direct words this time, no weapon-related metaphors - because such a pretty mouth was made for it, and _‘I just love it when you're on your knees, Jules,’_ and he lays down heavily atop the redhead as he told him just to be closer.

Ilya runs his hand over Lucio's back, admiring the well defined muscles underneath his fingers. He is definitely attractive: handsome, charismatic, more than a little bit dangerous, but that didn't matter so much because right now, Ilya did feel safe. "Okay."

"You're sure?" 

Lucio perks up like a dog hearing the promise of a treat.

"Yes. I'm sure."

A happy little grumble in the back of the blond's throat as he started moving down, leaving a trail of kisses on the dark hair of the doctor's abdomen that stopped for a while as he fought with belt and tight pants. "No, no, don't help me, I can do this. Just relax, okay?"

"Okay." Ilya lays his hands down next to his head, palms up. He's not actually sure that Lucio can manage the buckle with a single hand, but he'll let him try.

And to both of their surprise, he manages, even if it was with teeth and not-quite-serious cursing and a lot of laughter. "Part of the learning process, Doc, gotta go through this. You're good up there?"

Having the Commander's face so close to _that_ part of his anatomy wasn't something Ilya would have ever expected, and the tent of white linen that had fallen a bit out fear was back in full force, bobbing in expectation.

"Uh, um, yeah..." He reaches down with one hand and found Lucio's hair again. Not a dream. Or an especially vivid dream. Soft hair. Lucio has soft hair, might be the only thing soft about him. Only thing at all soft right now, to be entirely honest. He starts to nudge aside his waistband, and Lucio slaps his hand, lightly, very lightly. Wouldn't actually mind a little harder.

"I'm learning, puppy." He drags it down himself, just far enough to free the prisoner, gave it a little kiss as a Hello and then, ever serious about his battles once he decided to take them, swallowed down as far as he could go.

It isn't too different from a woman, only that the ladies Ilya had been with until now never showed that kind of enthusiasm.

Even the one he had an ongoing arrangement with because she said he was 'good at taking direction' and 'she actually got off.' Suppose that's a good quality to have. _Oh. Oh, that. That's..._

He only partially noticed how the blond struggled with the rest of his clothes. Lucio is serious about being a master of swordplay in every aspect, and now it makes sense why the others always grunted when somebody mentioned that. _Experienced with all arms indeed._

The wet heat of his mouth wanders, sucking and licking where it could get to, and Ilya feels a hand on his hip directing him to turn just a little to the side, and then there is . . . _Holy . . . hecannotputhismouththerecanhewhydoesthisfeelsogood . . ._ and the hand around his dick is pumping in a steady rhythm.

"Oh, god..." Ilya doesn't believe in god. Hasn't believed in god for years - lots of years. But, you know, ecstasy. Ecstasy, god, getting at the same idea. Shouldn't be so in his head. Not good. Should just be in his body...

Down there, Lucio mewls in frustration, just realizing that he can't pleasure himself while he pleasures the other, but quickly decides that the boy is more important right now. Mouth and hand switch places again, a polite fingertip asking for entrance. Yes. Relaxed and slick with saliva enough to slide in easily.

The finger rocks against him in small, pleasant circles, then presses just inside. Oh. That's. Oh. Strange. A shiver of tension passes over his stomach. Lucio pauses, sudden stillness maybe more of a shock than anything a finger could do. "You okay?”

Ilya nods.

"Words, Jules, words."

"I'm . . . keep going."

And he does, tongue toying with a dick that in the beginning isn't quite sure if it wanted to stay that way and then decides that _yes, yes, this is pleasant, I will stand, my man._

Now and then the Commander glances up to see how the boy is doing, notices that he was being watched with those huge, desperate gray eyes that drift to another place now and again. Thinks Jules doesn't want to let go before he absolutely had to, because maybe, probably, this was a moment that would just happen once in his lifetime, and he wanted to commit it to memory.

" _Yeshcho_." Shit. He's switching languages, hasn't done that for awhile. "Another?" More of a gasp than a question.

He felt teeth as Lucio grinned and followed his wish. _Another_. Of course, he could have that. The sight of the boy losing himself under his ministrations was just too sweet

Ilya had a moment to adjust with Lucio’s hand still, then he started to more his fingers again, slowly at first, then faster. He leaned his head back, biting his lip, head empty except for _good, good, very good_ . Tasted blood. _Hell, this is good._

It hurt a bit, with the saliva not offering quite enough lubrication, but it felt so _right_ , and while Lucio sometimes briefly stopped to add new spit, it wasn't enough.

"Can you give me a moment, puppy? Just to grab some oil."

The sudden cold air on the swollen cock added a new sensation, and he gasps.

And Lucio craved him, craved to see him come, craved to fill him up with everything he could offer. _He's beautiful. His flushed face, his moist lips, his face, gods, his face, getting lost somewhere outside his head._

_Hell_ . He felt . . . He felt empty. He rolled over on his side so that he could keep his eyes on Lucio, while the Commander pawed through a box near his bed. He ran his hand along his cock, lightly, didn't want to come yet. _Not yet._ Ilya tasted blood when he licked his lips and even that somehow just seemed right.

"Puppy? I know I said that I didn't expect to fuck you today, but you're taking it so well and..." _I'm so damn hard that it would be a waste._

A nonsensical feeling of pleasure at the phrase 'taking it so well.' But Ilya was well past the point of sense. "Please." It's almost a whine. He wanted whatever he was offered. He bites his lip again, drawing fresh blood. "Yes."

The mercenary took a swig of water and wiped over his face, just to get rid of some of the remains there, then struggled out of his pants. _Damn those anyway._ Hurried to get down on the floor with the boy again, kissing him fiercely, tasting copper and a hint of madness, and sunk his teeth into the mangled lip.

Ilya gasped at the sensation of Lucio's mouth on his. Good before, better now, with the sting from where he's bit it. Much better. He let Lucio push him back down onto the floor and moaned as teeth scraped along his neck.

His master, no, patient, no... _lover?_ kneels down between his legs, letting oil slowly run down the middle of Ilya's body. Sets aside the bottle and started spreading it, first only over the pulsing cock, like this was for something else all along, then further down over the little pouch and the cave between his cheeks. This time, his fingers slid in easily enough, finally filling the dreadful emptiness again.

Ilya can't even manage a whine, only a noise somewhere between a sob and a gasp, as the fingers inside do their work, stretching him further open. Not roughly, Lucio is still being careful with him, and he's got just enough mind left to appreciate that, even if some part of it is simultaneously insisting that a little rougher would be just fine.

_This would do._

"Come here." A shift of the blond's position, back leaning against the heavy wooden bedframe. "If you want to be impaled, puppy, you will do it at your own speed, and you will do it where I can fully enjoy the view."

Still breathing hard, and so awfully empty again, he followed the other's movements. Lucio is magnificent and smirking, cock hard between his legs, and Ilya realizes that he hadn't yet properly touched it. He sets his hands against Lucio's hips and starts to draw them together, move them around the other's cock, then he stops and finds the Commander's eyes. Permission? He _needs_ that granted.

The briefest nod is enough.

Ilya had always found it a bit silly when romantics talked about how the other filled their whole world, made everything go away, but at this moment, the man before him seems _everything_ , the sturdy bed a throne on which he lounges, and Ilya wants to be nothing but his tool, his slave, only used to please him however he liked, afterward sleep wrapped around his feet.

 _Puppy_...

Ilya wraps his hands around the other's cock, terrified that he might use too much pressure, or not enough pressure, and he just wants to get it _right_. To please. Lucio makes a noise that sounds pleased. He mustn't be doing anything too wrong then. Leans down and presses his mouth to the tip of Lucio's cock, almost reverently - no, yes, reverently, then ran his tongue around the tip. Salt and musk and masculinity.

 _Fuck. He's adorable._ Not a thought Lucio catches himself thinking too often, and while he wants to grab a handful of the red curls and just push him down until he chokes and fights for air, he doesn't. _Caresses_ him instead, gently opening the boy's mouth with his thumb. _Give it a try, will you?_

A touch on his jaw and a lighter one on the back of his neck. Permission more than command. _Yes_. He pulls back for a moment to lick his lips before leaning down and taking the other in his mouth, at least the first few inches, rolled his tongue along the underside, slid his mouth up and down, just a bit, experimentally, a little more at a time.

A languorous sigh. "You're a natural, puppy," and the mercenary's hips rose against him, craving to be deeper in the exploring mouth.

Fingertips in his hair accompany the praise, and he keeps working, a bit deeper each time. Didn't think he can manage the entire length, not this time, not yet, but he keeps one hand around the base of Lucio's cock, stroking along with the motions of his head, hoping that would be enough. For now, at least.

 _I want you._ The impatience takes hold of Lucio suddenly, all-consuming, and he drags the boy's head up to face him, leaving a trail of saliva hanging from his swollen lips, and kisses away the look of confusion, and then just told him.

"I want you, Jules. I want you to ride me to kingdom come and cum for me. I want to tear you apart and make you love it." _Love me_.

Those grey eyes are wide, almost stunned, then he nodded, understanding.

 _Want?_ Ilya feels a tremor of pleasure from the word alone. He kisses Lucio again because he wants to and because he is wanted, then straddles the other's lap, arms on his shoulders, hands in his hair, because he wants to. Lucio's hand trails down his back, and he shivers as fingers slide between his legs again.

The logistics of placing the tip at the entrance are difficult enough in one who knew the right angles and with two arms for the other to direct the motions, but Lucio is amazed how well the boy reacts to even slight tilts and corrections his fingertips provide. His cock feels so _heavy_ with blood - the best compliment to a lover he could give - and a shudder runs through him as he feels the tight ring of muscle against him.

"Exhale, puppy. Trust me. You'll like it." His hand rests on the other's tailbone, pushing down slightly, pointing the right way.

Ilya does as he was told, breathing out and letting himself down slowly. _Odd. So odd_. Not painful so much, just odd. The hand on his back helps him along with soft reminders that he could go as slow as he needed, that he is doing well. Then Lucio's cock nudged against something inside him. He gasped from the sudden wave of pleasure, hips jerking forward.

"See?" the Commander whispers against his lips. "Hold your position like this."

Lucio starts with slow rocking motions, teasing the bundle of nerves, even though the need to impale Jules on his full length grows with every heartbeat. The tiny moans that bubble from Jules' lips made him want to keep the boy right there as long as he could, as long as it would take to make him beg to be allowed to finish.

Words abandoned Ilya, leaving him with nothing but incoherent noises. He feels like he's floating and like he's entirely grounded all at once and with each rocking motion he sinks a little lower, a little closer. "Can't." He finally manages a word.

"What's this, puppy? You _can't_? And I shall let this go unpunished just because you whimper so nicely? Tsk." A slap on the bony bottom, not even a mean one, just gauging the reaction.

A whimper turns into a moan and another movement that brought him even closer to being settled fully on Lucio. Ilya's eyelids fluttered before settling on closed. "Please."

Please what? Please slap me again? Please let me fall apart? He doesn't know the answer, not even for himself - doesn't want to make decisions, can't make decisions, too far past thought for that. "Fuck me." Frustration and a plea both.

Nails dig into his pale flesh, leaving red marks tracing towards his hip, and suddenly, he is pushed down, filled with a heat that was so _new_ and so _good_ and so _deep_ , and what had been a faint motion becomes a violent pumping. He hears himself moan as Lucio's teeth dug into the muscle of his neck, tearing at it like a wild animal at its prey.

The bite hurt, but in all the right ways, and Ilya lets his head back trying to expose more of his neck.

He fell over the edge that he had been barely managing to balance on, coming across Lucio's stomach with a half strangled cry.

The mercenary felt Ilya tense up and go limp in his arm, fully relaxing, but still, his hole is hot and slick and tight enough, and he refuses to end this business one-sided. Keeps his rhythm and allows his thoughts to let go, becoming all muscle and heartbeat and heat. It wouldn't take too long.

Ilya can't track on the moment when _good, good, oh so good_ tumbles over into _too much,_ but then the line between those had dissolved for him a while ago. He clings to Lucio's shoulders, muffling whatever sounds might have been leaving his mouth against the other's neck.

The Commander comes with a grunt, one that forces its way up from deep below, a wave crashing on a cliffside, leaving hot residue in Ilya. He is sure he can feel it - _was that even possible?_ \- as he feels the hot breath of the other searching for his kisses, slow and lazy and satiated, but still as deep as he sat inside him.

He turns his face, cheek brushing against light stubble, and found the other's lips, sinking into kissing and being kissed, and the _less strange now, but still different_ feeling of fullness, and everything is back to _good, uncomplicated, good_ even with the sticky mess between then, and his chest is warm where he's pressed against Lucio, and it's a _nice_ contrast with the coolness of the air on his sweaty back, and he just lets himself melt around the other.

"You okay, puppy?" the Commander mumbles between two kisses. "I'm sorry I said otherwise, but-- you're just a fine piece of a- a doctor." He doesn't sound sorry at all.

Ilya lets his fingertips dance along the Commander's back, found his lips again. He’s past words and just wanted to touch right now.

Lucio just holds him, still seated comfortably on his lap, now and then kissing, but, in general, just _being there._ He isn't too bad at it, even if it isn't part of the usual way for things to go when he took a lover.

Ilya moves a bit and feels Lucio's cock slide out of him, leaving behind that same aching feeling of emptiness as earlier. He shivers and curls closer to the other, still feeling too hazy for any kind of coherent words.

"Nap?" Lucio asks, surprised himself by how spent he is. He drags the blanket from the bed and wraps it around them, unwilling to lose the redhead's warmth. Maybe he is getting old and sentimental, or maybe he still isn't as healthy as he liked to think.

Ilya is tired. Good tired. Very tired. Very, good tired. "Nap's good." A murmur and a sigh as the blanket drapes around his shoulders. He catches the side Lucio would have trouble with and tucks it tighter around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the awesome response to Chapter 1!
> 
> Have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63Iqyf7kcLeQQnbLURFpdH?si=TD8RPimzQFOhicQ-okROwg)! Everything from S&G to Gogol Bordello! :P 
> 
> We can be contacted on tumblr at [aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/) or [verdinium](https://ilyarium.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

Prakra or Zadith? Lucio couldn't get a firm answer on which would be the better bet to find an artisan who could construct the kind of arm he wanted - infused with magic and responding as a part of him.

Coin though - coin was clear. He took a contract that would move them up the coast and toward Prakra. _And pay handsomely._ Handsomely enough, he could afford to give the men a paid furlough while he took care of his own interests and to hire replacements for the ones that would inevitably decide to break their own contracts. _Gods help them._ He'd find deserters eventually, and he'd done it enough in the past that not too many would take the risk of not returning.

Besides. Lucio pays well, and coin makes for easy decisions.

\---

Ilya didn't realize just how much he'd missed the sea. They'd been inland for the past two years: foothills, mountains, then back out onto the plain again. The first time he smells salt on the breeze, he doesn't manage to stop himself from whooping with glee and charging, much to the amusement of everyone around him. No matter. 

He runs far enough ahead of the van to find a spot to sit on the sea cliffs, underneath a cedar clinging stubbornly to stone, and listen to the crashing waves. Maybe that's why he can never sleep. No perfect roaring rhythm to lull him. And salty - god, he loves the smell of salt and the way the breeze filled with it just a little heavier, a little stickier against his face.

"What are you doing, Jules?" Lucio is a splotch red in coastal blues and greens and grays, when Ilya looks back. He sounds amused.

"Enjoying it." Ilya can't stop himself from laughing, both because he knows his rhapsody is perhaps a bit silly, and well, just because he's happy. "It's almost like being home." And maybe because he's high on the salt air and well, it doesn't seem like anyone followed Lucio, he grabs Lu's hand, tugs him around to where he’ll actually be able to see the waves crashing, and hugs him from behind. "Look at that." The coast here is rocky cliffs, crumbling from the force of the waves and the work of small rivers that flow down into the water. But below, there’s a sandy beach, cut through by the outflow of a creek and licked by sparkling waves. He even thinks he can see a group of otters that have anchored themselves with kelp and are holding hands while they rest.

"It's the sea?" The commander sounds doubtful, like there must be something out there he's not seeing, some marvelous creature or castle made of foam and starlight, but he's smiling, just because the kid is so horribly excited.

"Yes! Can't you smell it? All the salt and the redwood trees! It smells like life!" Not death. And Ilya is sick of smelling death all around him.

"I've never considered life to smell salty, but if you say so, doc? Who am I to argue?" He leans back against that long, thin body he knows so well by now. It's nice to see Jules like this, even though he doesn't fully understand why.

"Can we stop here? For the night? Please, I'd like to sleep on the beach again. I haven't done that in years. And some fish to eat would be good. Everyone would like that, don't you think?"

"Go tell the boys you convinced me. Two days of camp when we find a good spot." A thin smile, but a real one. His smile has worn thinner and thinner in the last weeks, but as many times as Jules asks, Lucio hasn’t told him why.

"Two days!" It's more than Jules hoped for and for a second he feels drunk. He kisses Lucio's cheek and squeezes his shoulders before running back, not noticing how the commander winced from the tighter embrace.

Lucio stays back, staring at the sea a little longer. Yes. it is the right decision. The men deserve a time out, and here it can include baths and laundry and fresh fish over a woodfire. If nothing else, everything about the company will smell better for a bit. Will be good for morale for everyone, and the thought of sleeping in and not sitting on a horse for a while does sound like a relief for his own strained body.

-

The commander is sitting on a piece of driftwood, watching the sun lower itself toward the horizon. If Jules yelps from the cold when he first runs into the sea, it doesn’t seem to take long for his body to remember how to swim against the waves of the sea again. He pushes out past the sandbar, and Lucio can just see him over the roll of the waves, floating on his back. And if he’s not careful, the damned kid is going to get pulled completely out to sea and Lucio’ll be powerless to stop it.

Instead the current pushes Jules back to the shore, and he somehow manages to ride along the crest of one until he crashes into the sand and rolls to his feet. He's let his hair grow a bit longer, and the salt water has plastered it to his forehead. He shoves it out of his eyes. "Come out with me, Lu, please. It's fun."

"Never been much of a swimmer, Jules." That was true even before the arm. In his youth, it was an occasional dip into a river if it was calm enough to do so without being washed away and the summer was warm, and later on his travels, there never was a time when it was calm enough to properly learn it. Lucio had been able to keep himself afloat for a while treading water and paddling like a desperate dog, but that had been enough of a mess in good shape.

He hears the whoops and hollers of grown men carousing like idiots in the waves from further up the beach, and that puts his mind at ease enough to at least get rid of his boots and roll up his pants to the knees. A little wading in the clear water probably is okay.

Conversely, Jules is clearly reluctant to get out of the water at all. He lays down on his back right at the edge of where the waves are crashing and let them wash over his thin frame. At this rate, he’ll be well and truly sunburnt before the day is out this way. But it only takes a few waves before he gets bored, stands up, and takes Lu's hand looking at him with pleading eyes. "It's shallow enough to walk past the sandbar. We can just float some. I can keep you up if I need to."

"Ah! Showing your true colors now, doctor!" Lucio points an accusing finger at him. "A vicious merman you are, trying to lure me into the unfathomable depths!" Two more heartbeats for drama's sake before he cracks a grin. He _wants_ this to be fun. Needs it to be.

"Take you to my kingdom and keep you forever!" Jules ducks under a wave and stands back up, pushing hair out of his eyes again.

"I shall have you painted that way. Pretty little merman, caught in a net, entangled in strands of seaweed, pleading helplessly that he'll do anything to be set free." Lu wades out into the water, still unsure if he likes the salty wetness.

"Oh?" Jules holds out his hand again. He's grinning from ear to ear. "And just what will you be doing in this painting, sir?"

"I... I don't think I'll be in it. That shall be something for the private chambers. Do need paintings of me though. Something impressive. Maybe riding a lion. Think that would look good?" Lucio's best try at a majestic face still needs some work.

The kid's laugh only confirms that worry. "A lion?" He grasps Lucio's hand in his. "That could work. Match the lion's fur to your hair. A majestic mane. One king of the beasts tamed by another."

"Maybe a horse will do too. A nice noble steed, not a vile little bastard like Morris."

Morris, his black, indeed is anything but majestic. He'd make a fine night-mare, or something else that is bloodthirsty and vile, but for a stately portrait, it would need a very creative painter to find the necessary looks in the horse.

"You could have both." A larger wave crashes across Jules' back. He wraps his other arm around Lucio's back, making sure to keep him steady.

"I'm really not sure if I like this whole sea-thing. Really not..."

"You sure?" His eyes really do look like a puppy's when he's disappointed.

_It is dangerous and I really don't wanna drown, boy. No. Can't tell him that_. Instead, Lucio smiles. "Just give me a while to get used to it, okay? I'll stay here in the shallow waters and watch you mermaiding." Jules tastes like salt when he kisses him, then laughs again and quite literally throws himself backwards in the water.

The kid is definitely starting to sunburn when he hauls himself back out of the waves and flops down beside Lucio with an arm thrown over his eyes. "Seriously, Lu, you don't know what you're missing."

"It's not like I've never been swimming before, you know? I just don't trust the sea. You never know what lurks there." Monsters. That's what.

"Mmm..." Jules sits up and looks back over his shoulder. "There's a nice pool back where that creek comes in. Pretty still. And I wouldn't mind rinsing the salt off me."

A slow nod. "I think I can live with that." It sounds harmless enough.

Lucio isn't a coward, not by any means, but something about the endlessness of oceans fills his stomach with stones. A proper lake is bad enough, but at least you have a vague idea where you might end up if you die in one. The ocean? That's just lost, thoroughly lost, and then ending up in the stomach of some ugly fishes that don't even taste good.

Jules springs up again. He's got entirely too much energy, as if he's been absorbing power from the waves. Maybe he is indeed some kind of merman or other fae sea creature that's been too long from his home. Then he's bent over, offering a hand to pull Lu out of the sand.

"The things you make me do, kid..." he grumbles, because he still isn't keen on this whole endeavour, but seeing the redhead like this, excited like a young dog at his first time on the hunt, warms his heart. He lets himself be dragged towards the rocky pool, a basin left by nature and a little river not quite making it to the sea. Jules freeing him from the rest of his clothes is something he barely notices anymore. It has become a daily ritual for them before bedtime, a soothing comfort even when he's not in the mood.

He's surprised by how warm the water actually is. He expected something chilly like the ocean waves, but the sun has been able to exert its influence over the stiller, shallower pool. Jules kisses his fingers and babbles something that sounds meaningless and happy as he tugs Lucio with him, until he's waist deep in the water and the kid is splashing around again because it's just deep enough and large enough to swim a bit.

Lucio does that too, or at least tries to. Swimming with that useless limb is exactly as frustrating as he expected it to be, and he quickly ducks his head under before the boy can see his tears. Going in the ocean like this would just mean a rather quick death, at least with his abilities. Just floating in the warm water, sun on his skin, is somewhat nice though.

"See, not so bad." Jules floats next to him, still with that dopey, adorable grin on his face. "And -" He rolls over twists and stands back up. "You can just put your feet down whenever. No sharks."

"So you've never heard of the crystal sharks of Alimhara?” Sounding absolutely serious while absolutely bullshitting is something that Lu is very good at, and if he fakes a happy mood long enough, maybe he’ll convince himself. “Ha, I knew it. Rare, beautiful creatures, clear and sharp as a shard of glass, and almost invisible in those emerald green waters." 

"Oh yeah? So then they sneak up and -" Fingers close around Lucio's butt, and Jules laughs. "Bite you?"

"And tear you to pieces!" A quick roll to the side, quick enough to catch Jules and sink the white teeth into the sunburnt skin of his shoulder, showering them both in the clear water.

Jules moans and wraps both arms around Lu, pulling him close, skin slick from the water. He struggles a little too much - maybe he still isn’t entirely in good spirits about this - but the young doctor is too drunk on salt and sun to notice, and he laughs and moans as Lucio plays along and digs his teeth into pale skin again.

"Mmmm.... please keep doing that." Jules’ hands move along Lucio's back, pressing firmly, and for a moment it feels good, until his arm bumps what's left of Lu's left by mistake.

He flinches and suddenly bites down hard, more in self-defense than anything else, but Jules appears to only think it's part of the game and a part that he very much enjoys, moaning again and tipping his head to the side to expose more of his neck.

Another forceful bite, and another one, while a strong hand grabs the red hair and draws back his head further. They had been playing around with a little pain here and there, harsh grabbing and deep scratches, but never like _this_.

Jules doesn't just allow it; the boy is clearly into it, responding with pretty noises and the occasional yelp that quickly turns into a _yes_ and a plea for more. Lucio soon has him pushed back against a rough rock that's probably scratching and bruising his back, and Jules response is to lock his legs around Lu's waist and pull him close.

The mercenary's hand closes around the boy's neck, choking him, threatening to crush his windpipe, and instead of even trying to do anything against it, it just makes him harder, and it makes Lucio angry - and he doesn't even really know why - angry and horny as battles do, and he wants to tell the kid what a _stupid little fuck_ he is to allow a murderer to do this with him, because he might not stop in time and men break so easily.

Still, he lets go, even if he takes a moment to snap out. He doesn't want to harm the kid, even if he is an idiot at times. Jules gasps, looking a bit dazed as he catches his breath and rubs his throat. Then he's got his arms tangled around Lu once more and is muttering some nonsense about _try that again . . . in a minute, once I've caught a couple breaths_ \- something like that, hard to tell through his gasps - _please_.

And Lu does it, index finger and thumb on the boy's pulse, watching his lips turn blue and releasing and pushing down again, and he feels Jules humping against him, harder than he's ever been, and feels strangely distant all of a sudden. Not even angry anymore. A sword can't kill in anger, it is the hand that leads it, and right now, he is just a sword in Devorak's hand. That, at least, he still can be.

Finally, the kid taps out and his head slumps over Lucio's shoulder, but he's still hard and moving against him, and _shit_ his back is actually bleeding from that damned rock.

"You good, Jules?" Suddenly, he's genuinely worried. Playing hard sometimes is one thing, but this... He feels as awkward as his half-hard dick, unsure if he liked this at all.

"Yeah, yeah." The redhead’s panting, whether from catching his breath still or being close to cumming or some combination of the two. "That felt, I, um, don't know what that felt, but I'm good." He stills for a second, maybe just now realizing that Lu isn't responding to his movements. "You okay?"

"Sure." A quick smile that may or may not be accurate. "Sure. Need help finishing what we started?"

"Mmmm, yes." Jules leans back and lets the water take most of his weight, completely oblivious again. The mercenary can't blame him. It was kind enough to ask at all. He's trying, and some things are hard to see with no blood in your head and the eyes glazed over with lust.

His good hand closes around the cock that's so heavy between the young doctor's legs, and he still is watching him from a point that's somehow farther back behind his eyes than usual.

Ilya’s riled up enough already that it doesn't long, and he's just as clingy afterwards as usual, which is very. It takes more coaxing that Lu really feels like in the moment to convince him to _stop being a goddamn octopus_ and drag them both out of the water.

They lie in the sun to dry, and for a change it's Lu in the doctor's arms, because he feels like he needs it, even if he'd never admit that aloud. Usually, this is the part he likes least, being messy and sweaty and unkempt, all grandiose gestures of affection spent, but this time it slowly brings him back to being here, lying somewhat uncomfortably on that bony rib cage, dark curls tickling his cheeks.

And Jules, if nothing else, is content - happy even - to just hold him, like he always is, even if he really doesn't understand why Lu needs it. There's that, at least, sporadic affectionate mumbles, an arm around his waist and fingers walking up and down his back because Jules doesn't just like to touch, he _needs_ to touch.

"Did you have any idea you liked things like this?" Lu asks after a while of pleasant silence and waves rolling ashore, because he needs to know.

The bite marks and bruises around the pale neck will be a couple days healing. ”No, yes, I mean, I like it when you're rough with me, knew more of that would be okay, but hadn't exactly thought it out."

"Anything else you've not exactly been thinking of?" A little chuckle of relief makes its way up from the knot in Lucio's stomach.

"Might need more bad ideas put in my head."

"Jules? You know I don't mind when you lie with others, but for things like that... choose reasonably, okay?"

"Mmhmm." He sounds half asleep and if he isn't gotten under some shade soon, he'll be adding the nastiest possible sunburn to his list of injuries. "Rather be you."

"I'll bore you soon enough, lobster boy." A rather mean pinch into the angry red skin of Devorak's chest. _Rather be me_. _You don't know what you're saying, kid_.

"Oww!" Jules lifts his head and looks down at his skin, only just now realizing that he'd turned the color of a well ripened tomato. "Aww, _shit_. Okay, that, that I'll actually regret tomorrow."

Sawbones looks just as grumpy as ever, no more no less. "This for the sunburn, this for the bruises, and no, I do not want to know."

"Um, thanks..." Ilya takes the two little pots of salve from him gratefully. He thinks he might come out of skin. He actually is coming out of at least part of his skin, shedding it like a snake.

"Go easy with that, you're not the only one who worshipped the sun a bit too hard yesterday. And -" He shakes his gray head at Jules. "You're going to be tender for a few days no matter what I do."

\---

Lu tries to convince Jules to be reasonable about the sun as well, but of course, Jules is not reasonable about it, even if he knows better, but it's the sea, and while he’ll admit everything hurts a bit, he still needs to be outside and with his skin in the water. Lucio forces him to at least keep on his shirt and wear a wide floppy hat for a bit of shade, but the bright-eyed madness the salty air brings is hard to reign in.

Today, they're taking a long walk along the beach, sand crunching under their feet then gravel as the beach narrows and the water meets the stone of the cliffs, and they're walking at a swift pace, because Lucio feels like it and Ilya needs it - needs to get winded out and sweaty and panting like a hunting dog, one that isn’t going to caught anything because it’s still too young and rambunctious to hold back on creating noise. The air here is odd, tight somehow, and it's making Lu's skin tingle. Sometimes it felt like this before the storms came that brought the violent snowfall that showed that winter was serious now, and always in the nights between the years, when the Wyld Hunt was riding the skies, and he was forbidden from going out even though he craved to so very much that it hurt.

Perhaps _demented spider monkey_ is a better metaphor for the kid than hunting dog today. Jules scrambles and jumps around the rough rock formations, climbing higher and up steeper inclines than he probably should. He even skips out along a line of rocks that the low tide has exposed until the surf is spraying in his face, and Lu is quite convinced that he's going to slip, fall, break his skull against the stone, and drown.

"You'll die if you aren't careful, kid. Just like that." How can he have those impossibly long legs? And how is he so balanced now when his tendency on flat ground is to trip over his own feet?

"I'm fine." He leaps back onto the beach proper and catches his floppy hat as the wind starts to lift it from his head, "If the sea wanted to kill me, I'd be dead already."

"She may just be taking her sweet time, lulling you into safety and hit you when you're least expecting it!" Lucio exclaims. He meant it to be a warning, but he's laughing. The boy's madness is catching up with him.

"Maybe." The kid walks backwards along the beach, nearly trips over a small bit of driftwood and continues anyway. "Maybe if I'm fearless I'll trick her into thinking that I can't be killed."

"Or that you're no challenge and not worth the slightest effort. It's a worthwhile tactic, if you're credible while trying it." A few quick steps to catch up with him, and hand closing around hand. None of the men are here to see him, and it feels safe enough to be the one offering casual affection, rather than simply accepting it.

"Yeah, may have already blown that one, surviving once when I shouldn't have. Or I suppose it's never too late to start acting like a harmless idiot." His grin might actually reach from ear to ear. "Or to keep acting like an idiot."

"Or maybe she thinks you still were needed then. There are worse things to believe."

"Or you're right, and I'm entirely not worth the trouble." He halts - suddenly enough that Lucio bumps into him - and looks over his shoulder. "What was that?"

"Hm? What _was_ that?" Sudden tension in the commander's muscles, adrenaline flooding his system.

"Think it was the other side of those rocks." Jules lets go of his hand, then he's climbing again, over a lower formation that cuts from the cliff into the water.

  
  


No sword, but at least the dagger, straight and mean and always on his belt, that Lucio always has, but it's better than nothing. He follows, silently cursing the boy and the sea and the whole rest of it. Maybe a wounded sailor or fisherman. When a man is in enough pain, cries stop sounding human.

"Holy shit!" Jules stops so fast that he has to fling his arms out and wave them in circles to regain his balance.

"It's just a--" Words fail the mercenary, and that doesn't happen often. At first glance, he thought it to be a dolphin or a shark, with a long tail and a fin and shimmering grey skin, but those don't have arms and a vaguely human upper body. She - he just knows it's a she, he couldn't say why, and that she is suffering and so very scared, is curled up just at the edge of the water, dark blood pooling under her, and her wails ebb as they come closer. She's huge, maybe twice Devorak's height, with black lidless eyes and sharp teeth, and she's hurt, blood staining the sand around her.

"I'd heard stories, but -" Jules starts to climb down toward the creature, but at least he's going slowly this time and trying to stay out of reach of the tail and arms.

"What did you hear?" Still, he's behind him, and he's scared, Montag-too-deep-in-the-woods-scared, when he just knew that there was something hiding in the shadows.

"That you can't predict them. Sometimes they'll wreck a ship to drown and eat the sailors. Other times -" Jules holds one hand out to her. "They'll drag a floundering ship to safety or rescue a drowning man."

"She’s dying, Jules." He's surprised how pained, how urgent his voice sounds.

The creature has become still, very still. Little dark patches on her slick surface in a pattern that is hers and hers alone. It’s impossible to tell if her solid black eyes are focusing on them or not.

Jules circumambulates the creature, splashing through the surf with his boots still on. "Poor thing." The comment sounds distant and detached, and very unlike Jules' usual intense over-investment. "Ugh, she found the wrong ship. Harpoon."

"Do something, dammit!" The exclamation bursts out of Lucio. This time it's him who's emotional, in the way he may be with his horse or his dogs, but rarely with people, and he squats down, approaching slowly.

"I can't, Lu. I mean, I don't know how much her anatomy is like a human's, but you know that's not a wound that could be fixed." He gets a little closer to her with his hand stretched out in front of him, and when she doesn't swipe at him with her own huge webbed hand, touches her arm. "There, girl. You're hurting aren't you." The tone in Jules' voice is the same that Lu's used himself when he has to put down an injured horse.

A new wail as answer. Does she understand? Know it's a question? Lu's on his knees now, down at her side with little regard for his own safety, and he's crying with big salty tears that drop down into his clothes and onto her grey skin.

It's not the first time Ilya has seen him cry, but the first time it's not about himself.

Jules starts to pull a knife out of his boot slowly. Then stops. "Actually, I'm not sure I can even do this. Don't know how she breathes."

"No mercy for you. Not even that..."

Lucio kneels down beside her. He doesn't understand why this is getting to him, why this feels so wrong. Death rides at his side, an old companion, uncaring for innocence or guilt, and like Death, he has stopped caring long ago, and yet here he is, bawling like a child over a fucking mermaid, and he clutches her taloned hand in his and presses it against his chest, and she allows him.

"I mean, um, if I pull the harpoon loose, she'll bleed out faster, but that would be really painful, so..."

The mermaid lays her held down on her arms, huge eyes very, very close to Lu, like she's willing to take whatever companionship she can get at the end.

"No." His hand trails over her cheek. Slightly rough, even though it looks so smooth. Shark skin. "I'll stay with you until it's over. Don't worry. You won't go alone."

She keens in response, and Lu is certain that he can feel her eyes on him. Jules moves cautiously around her, stroking her other arm and her flank. He's gentle, but the touches are more curious than compassionate.

"The old men say that your kind returns to foam, like ours goes back to the winds, in the very end, when the flesh is gone and we are finally free." The commander's voice is soft, softer even than it is when he lays with the young doctor.

She makes another little noise, softer this time. While she exhales through her mouth, she seems to breath through a series of gills in her side, and Jules is probably right that they can't give her any mercy. Beyond just sitting with her, and that is not so much.

"Do you think we can get her back into the water? Maybe it's easier there. Or at least keep her wet. Give some cover from the sun. Your shirt. Soak it."

"Yeah. Better not to move her." Jules shrugs out of his shirt and dips it in the water, before laying it carefully over her shoulders. A little sigh escapes her lips. It must help a bit. He needs to believe that.

"Hat next. Good enough for a bucket, at least for now." He struggles out of his own shirt and covers her head with it. Dives under the fabric again, face close to hers, hand on her cheek, lovers hiding under a blanket. The dim white makes the sun way more bearable.

Jules pours water slowly over the dry shirt, and Lu can hear him moving along the mermaid, scooping up water and pouring it over her skin. Her breath starts to slow, with more space between inhales and exhales.

"It will be fine, sweetheart. Just a long nap, and no more pain. And I'll remember you. I promise."

Something in her eyes changes, and briefly, Lu isn't there with her anymore, but down somewhere where it's cool and dark and as wide as the sky, and he knows she's breathing through him and not through her own power anymore, a precious few last gasps of air and salt.

She shudders and one final push if air leaves her mouth.

Then she is still.

Lucio stays with her, looking into sightless eyes that carry the darkness of the depths, not quite ready to face the sunny day outside the white world of the shirts again. He feels odd, like he just woke up from a long dream, and he notices that he's still crying, or again.

"Hey, Lu." Jules closes his hands around Lucio's shoulders. He pulls back, trying to coax him out from under the shirt tent. "You okay?"

And Lu lets himself be pulled. Mumbles something that sounds like "Yeah, sure", but he's not, or maybe he is? Too dazed, like there is something off in his head. "A fuckin' mermaid. Fuckin' sea."

"Okay. Sit down here, alright?" Jules pulls him back onto the dry sand, and drapes one of the damp shirts around his shoulders. The kid sits down beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Yeah, fuckin' sea."

"They got curves and pretty hair in all the pictures I've seen," Lu says darkly. This one for sure had neither, and still... He isn't sure if she was beautiful or just felt more real than most of the people around him, and then, all of a sudden, she was gone.

"Don't think many people have actually seen them."

"Have you seen one before? Even from a distance?"

"I thought I saw one once when I was little. No one else on the ship did though. Just laughed at a little kid’s fancy."

“We can't leave her here, " Lucio states firmly, "Not like this at least."

"What do you want to do with her?"

"Give her back to the waves. Think that's the least we can do. And get that thing out of her before." His voice is shaking.

Lucio is not an empathic man, and he can't afford to be one. Devorak has witnessed what he can do to humans if it needs to be without batting an eyelash, but this... this is new, and he’s silent for a moment, as if he’s unable to process the previously unobserved behavior.

But then Jules pulls him close and kisses the top of his head, which is just about as odd as feeling empathy for a sea creature, because the kid is all affection and elbows, but even he seemed to understand there were some limits on how much of that Lucio would tolerate. After a moment, Jules gets up and walks around the mermaid, water sloshing around his calves on the opposite side of her, where it had been around his knees. "Tide's going out at least. That'll help." He leans over the body, examining how the harpoon drove through it. "We'll need to pull this through the way it was going in, barbs aren't coming out otherwise."

Wordlessly Lu nods and props her up enough with his own body for the young doctor to push, drive metal and wood through already tissue, covering himself in her dark blood, and it looks a bit like Jules is impaling the both of them together.

Jules curses more than a little, but finally gets the projectile free. He runs a bloody hand over his face. "You know that we're going to have to drag her fairly far out, or the current is just going to push her right back to the beach?"

A distinctly unhappy look at the word we, but then Lu nods. "Thought something like this."

Jules pauses to take off his boots and toss them further up the beach. He loops his arms under the massive arms and begins walking backwards, pulling the corpse into the surf. It is one way to get Lu into the water, as sad of a reason it may be. His arm is around her waist, and he at least tries to help, feeling amazingly useless while doing so.

Once she's in the water, they no longer have to struggle with the weight, but instead they're fighting the waves trying to push them back to shore. Lucio's eyes sting from salt, and he's not sure if it's sea spray or tears or some mixture of both.

He doesn't like the sea. He knew it before, but now he's very, very sure, and he's pretty sure that he wouldn't have liked her either, because she's a predator, much like him, but with sharper teeth, and still it doesn't feel like she deserves this fate.

Eventually, the waves even out and stop crashing, but the water is deep enough that his feet only barely touch the sand below. Jules lays back a bit in the water and tries kicking further out into the sea with his arm still wrapped around the mermaid’s shoulders. "Damn. I thought I might be able to get a bit farther...."

"Don't think this is far enough? It's pretty damn far if you ask me..."

"No." Jules let go of the body. He's treading water easily and pushes one hand through his hair, plastering it back over his head. "Not sure, uh, that we actually can get her out far enough. Didn't think this through."

"You -" Okay, don’t panic, he can stand, even if the rolls of the waves are lifting him from his feet for a moment each time. "You could go back and see if you find a decent piece of wood to hold onto while swimming further out. Easier to carry her that way, maybe?" A wave washes over his face, and he spits, trying and failing to get the briny taste out of his mouth.

"Problem isn't keeping afloat, it's moving out. Then getting myself back." All of a sudden, Jules yelps and something flicks against Lucio's leg.

"Damn this fucking element!" Lucio cringes. Water. Fish are in water. Big fish. He likes them on the table, but that's as far as this goes.

Even Jules looks a bit worried. There's another brush past Lu's leg, and then a head with jet black eyes rises from the water and looks over the mermaid's body at him. Shows teeth, many pointy teeth, and he's not sure if she's smiling or menacing him or both, but he decides to be better safe than sorry and slowly releases the hold on her sister. "Jules? I think she's taking over from here..."

"Um, uh." Jules lets go of the dead mermaid's shoulders and moves himself back next to Lucio. "Didn't plan for this either."

Again, they feel the long, powerful body brush against them, very much the kindly reminder that the creature doesn't fear them in the slightest, and then, her arms wrap around her dead sister, and she dives beneath. No dramatic exit with a lot of foam and sea spray and a tail fin raised to the heavens. She's just gone, too elegant for such nonsense.

The two men stand together completely bewildered. Lucio starts spitting salty water again as a wave washes over his face. Devorak is too tall and irritated by all of this to be impressed, and they seem to wait for some end to this that will not come, something that would make it a decent story to tell in the tavern and not just a sad one, but it doesn't come.

Jules finally gives up on finding something to say, and instead loops an arm around Lucio, holding him higher in the water, and treading instead of trying to keep his feet on the bottom. It is easier to avoid getting water in your face that way, but Lucio will be damned if he's going to admit it. "I'm guessing you wanna go back to the shore?"

"They still might be here and change their opinion of letting us go."

Jules does something that involves strategically using the waves to push them back in, until they can both stand easily, and walk back the rest of the way. He keeps an arm around Lucio's waist though, and Lu finds he can't be too offended as the alternative seems to be getting knocked down into the sand.

"Told you one arm and water wouldn't work," he grumbles, just because grumbling feels better than actually talking about what just happened. He's soaked, and he's sad, and he doesn't like it _at all_.

Jules flops down next to where he tossed his boots and flings his arms out to the side. The kid is still far too pleased with sand. "Sure you could figure it out with enough time."

"Never intended to be a sailor anyway." Lucio draws his legs close to his chest and wraps his arm around them, making himself into a little bundle. Stares at the redhead like he's not quite sure if he's really there.

Jules sits back up. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm... just a little confused. Think that's all. Too much sun or something."

"Let me find that hat for you. Wanna sit for a bit before we head back?"

Slowly, Lucio nods. Maybe it's just the sea that's getting to him, or last night's drinks. There is a particular emptiness in his stomach that he never... no, that's not true. He knows this feeling, but can't quite remember why.

Jules sets the still damp hat on his head and sits down next to him. He's still for a moment, then wraps his arm around Lucio's shoulders again.

The commander exhales, and with the breath the tension in his muscles slowly eases. His head sinks against the kid's chest. Somehow, he still feels like crying, but he can't. "Sorry. I... I don't know what's up. I really don't."

"S'okay." Ilya doesn't sound like he understands either, but that might not matter so much, since Lu can't verbalize it himself. "Can just sit here however long you want."

"It's like... you know? When you almost remember something, and you know it's important, but it's not quite there?" He doesn’t say the rest aloud. _I felt her, down in the marrow of my bones, and that I felt her die, and that... no? Just no?_

Jules rubs Lu's shoulder without speaking for a few moments. "Yeah, um, I think so. Trying to remember my mother's face."

"Must have been a while since you've seen her." He's somewhat thankful that Jules is making this about himself too, even though it's not at all what he means.

"Ten years, no, eleven. Shit." A bitter laugh. "That number just keeps getting larger."

"Seventeen for me." Not enough. No number could ever be.

"That's a long time."

"And you miss her, by the sounds of it?"

"Of course I do. Don't you?"

Lucio is silent. The honest answer would probably be too much for the kid.

For once, Jules recognizes when a silence should be left alone and doesn't ask more questions. He leaves his arm around Lucio, even when he eventually lays back on the sand and slides the wide hat around enough to cover both of their faces.


	4. Chapter 4

"Jules, I can't."

The redhead might whimper and plead as he wants, Lucio isn't willing to hurt him like that. It is something he might do to an enemy without much fretting, but not to a lover. They may play a little hard now and then, but what Devorak wants is just too much, and the commander is not inclined to ever get close to almost killing him out of bad habit and reflex again.

Besides, some of what he would like, Lucio literally can't do. The simplest of knots are quite beyond him. Jules lets it go, but the kid just looks so damn disappointed. And if he's foolish enough to ask one killer, well...

"Come here, puppy." He sits down and pats his thigh, still in pants and high boots, even if the rest is already naked.

Jules is still pouting which is only a good look on him when it's limited to every now and then. He folds himself on the floor and leans his head against Lu's leg, grown out hair falling around his face.

Lucio's fingers comb through the red curls, "You know, puppy... I was thinking. I know a place in Prakra that might be able to give you what you wish for, even if I'm not able to. How does that sound?"

Jules tilts his head back and looks up with eyes that are thrilled and surprised at the same time. "I thought you didn't, that you didn't think that, um, any of this was a good idea."

"I still think it's not a good idea to make me do that, yeah." I'm afraid I couldn't look at you how I do now afterwards. It's not fun and games. It's work, and not the kind you do with people you like or intend to leave alive afterwards if it's not strictly necessary. "But I also think you'll find a way to do it no matter what I do, so it might be wiser to do it in a place that's trustworthy."

"You don't trust me to be wise." It's a blithe comment, and Jules is grinning up at him and batting his eyelashes. When the hell did he start acting coy?

"I trust you to be as foolish and humanly possible." Lu bows down to kiss his cheek. "But you deserve to enjoy every day as if it was your last, if it's possible in any way. You deserve to not miss out. Don't want you to lie dying in a ditch somewhere and curse the things you never had the chance to do."

"Mmm." Those grey eyes turn dark for a moment. He may play at being just pretty and naive more often now, but he has seen enough of death. But he grins again, quick enough. "Think that's a common last thought? Wish I had fucked more?"

"Think it really gets you down to base needs, in the end. And wishes like that can be filled easily enough. Those aren't in 'Wish I settled and had a family'-territory. I can't help with those, but I want to help with what I can help with." Voice tainted with melancholy. That's unusual.

The grin falls from Jules' face. He twists his long limbs around, kneeling with his hands on his knees and looking up at Lu. "What's wrong?"

_ I don't think I can give you what you need, boy. You need someone to hold onto. Prince in shining armor I sure ain't. Can't save you, as much as I want to. _

All that Lucio doesn't say. Forces a smile instead, a mediocre one, and says "Nothing. Just a few dark thoughts."

Jules reaches up and curls a hand around Lu's jaw. Brushes his thumb over his lips, and Lu is vaguely aware that he'd probably take off the hand of anyone else who touched him like that without an invitation.

"What do you say, mh? Sounds like a good idea?"

Dark eyebrows push together for a moment, but then, he buries his concerns and grins once more at the prospect of an adventure. "Sure."

* * *

That could have gone better. Of course, it could have gone worse. Lucio had managed to restrain himself from any actual physical destruction. That, though, had been something of a constant since the company had arrived in Prakra. The city rubbed him the wrong way, something about the people being so loud and close together, about life taking part on the street and everything being public, and yet, he decided to stay. Maybe find a better artisan here than the ones the journey had offered so far.

The boys, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying themselves. Beautiful women and bright colors for new clothes kept them occupied, and some of them were more than willing to adapt some parts of the Prakrian fashion to their own. A silken sash here, a richly embroidered rim there.

There had been quite a bit of cursing during their search, but Ilya figured that some who made prosthetic limbs for a living had heard more than a little cursing in his life. Although, maybe not as creative of invictives as Lucio managed. It helped that they came in his native tongue. Jules understood only bits and pieces of it, but what he got was very… distinctive.

The trouble wasn’t the fit as much as the commander's expectations. He wanted a prosthetic that would actually be functional in a combat scenario, and he didn't want to accept that no conventional prosthetic was going to have the range of motion or strength he desired. Not to speak of fine motor control. And while he had appreciated the potential damage that could be inflicted with a strategically sharpened hook, his vanity kicked in at the notion of actually wearing such a thing.

“I’m not a miracle worker, sir. If you go to Zadith there are alchemists there that create artificial limbs with magic. But, I’m afraid, these are my finest.”

Lucio had finally stormed out in utter frustration. The old surgeon had nudged Ilya to follow him, and stayed back to settle up with the artisan and purchase what had seemed like the most promising designs. Any of them were an improvement on the makeshift options that cleverer members of the mercenaries had figured out, but still, none was quite good enough.

Ilya trailed Lucio into the street and watched him readjust his cape to ensure that it fell over his left side. He stamped his high boots, looked around the narrow street outside of the artisan’s workshop, and then shouted back over his shoulder. "Come on, Jules. I need a drink." A bright grin, or at least an angry man baring his teeth before killing the next one in his way.

Ilya isn't too sure about how much he wants to try to keep up with a very irate Lucio. This could turn rather nasty, rather quickly, and they were back in civilization where Lu at his nastiest could actually find someone to provoke. And still… after a moment of hesitation, a few pendant steps on the same spot, maybe briefly musing if he had it in his power to keep his commander from… No. This won’t be happening. At least it’s easy to catch up with him with Devorak’s chronically long strides. Nonetheless, he trots after Lucio for a moment, easily catching up to the commander, thanks to his rather longer strides.

* * *

The young doctor has never been to a place like this. The amount of luxury here is very close to ridiculous, golds and velvets and leather, and lace, so much lace, mostly used to most appetizingly cover equally luxurious people.

The ladies here seem to be very good at calming angry men, or maybe Lucio is just particularly easy to soothe by stroking his ego. He seems to be an old friend. He is welcomed by name and with long hugs and a drink, and soon Jules finds one in his own hand too.

It's wine, classier than what he's gotten used to drinking with the mercenaries over the past few months, although he doesn't have much of a basis for deciding whether it's better or worse or just something else entirely. A pretty girl with dark eyes is undoing the buttons on his vest. She giggles when he mumbles something about being able to do it himself. "That's not the point, honey."

"Is this the first time you've been with a lady of negotiable affection, Jules?" Spending time and money this way is so much part of Lucio's habits that he almost forgot not everyone shares them. He has a little blonde, clearly not her natural color, but very cute nonetheless, on his lap, his hand on the small bulge of her bare tummy, allowing her to feed him with blueberries.

Maybe she reminds him of home, strands almost as white as his.

"Umm.... I don't think these -" Ilya jumps as one runs her hand through his hair. "Negotiate as much as the ones who follow the camp."

The girl’s giggle sounds like the strange fizzy white wine they served, and goes straight to Jules' head as well. "We are way more affectionate though, darling, that I promise." 

That's another one, slightly older, pressing a kiss on Lucio's forehead and messing up his hair. "Who's your cute friend, Lucy? Did you bring me a present?"

"In a way?" The commander chuckles. "He might be just too happy to be tied up in ribbons for a bit, even though rope might do if you don't have enough ribbon."

"Oh? What a treat!" Firm fingers close around Jules' chin, and she lifts his face turning it from side to side and smiling with apparent approval. "Is that so, sweetness?"

"I, um--" He suddenly struggles with words, for this, and in general. He's flushed, and at half-mast, and Lu's eyes on him are full of affection, and that's somehow the worst of all.

Her laugh is gentle and she brushes a hand over his cheek, before looking back to Lu. "And one that's still shy? Lu, you're going to spoil me."

"A silent pool, but not a shallow one. Some of his wishes are not mine, but I want to see him happy nonetheless. I ha--," the blonde is kneeling in front of him now, filling her mouth with him, "-- was musing if you could fill his cravings."

"I'm sure we can find a way to accommodate." She settles in Jules' lap and wraps one arm around his back. He hesitantly rests one hand on her thigh - how exactly is this supposed to go anyway? And earns another laugh, still it's not cruel, just amused. "Yes, dear, you're allowed to touch me. At least for the moment."

"I'm glad he's to your liking, Isolde, but then, why shouldn't he be? Probably would profit from a strict hand. I may spoil him too much, but I just can't help myself." The commander isn't serious. Doesn't sound serious, at least, and he winks at the redhead. It feels comforting to know that he still keeps his Jules in mind, even when they talk about him like an object.

“And will you be participating?”

“I think it is better if he has the chance to focus on himself and himself alone. Always was too busy for that, ever since I’ve known him, right, Jules?” This time, Lucio honors him with a direct question.

"Um, yes, I, wait -" He gives up, too confused to decide whether he should agree or not. Isolde and Lucio both laugh and as he blushes, Lucio gives one additional command.

"Take good care of my boy."

* * *

After all these weeks with Jules, Lucio feels strange to be alone with someone else, especially like this, with a warm mouth around his cock and another one kissing his lips and feeding him wine. He usually wasn't that good about staying true to someone, even if he told him in the beginning he would be. He never wanted the kind of attachment he was feeling toward the boy. Emotions clouded his head and made him weak, and if he is weak, people die who don't deserve to.

The ladies were doing their best, he would admit that any time, and it wasn't their fault. They were professionals just like him, or just like he had been, and the realization that his whole life was going to shit had kindly waited until now, when he paid upfront, to settle in his consciousness and spoil his mood.

"Is there something else I can do for you, mi'lord?" The girl kneeling between his legs sounds concerned about her failure to please, or his failure to be pleased - whichever it is.

"You..." He leans forward. Caresses her cheek. Wipes smeared lipstick away with his thumb. She's awfully pretty, but everyone here is. Isolde selects them with the same care he did with his men. "No. I'm sorry. I may just not be back to my old shape yet. Tell your mistress I wasn't feeling well and had to excuse myself to come back in better days. Well... tell her when she is done with Jules. She may enjoy him as long as she likes. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, mi'lord." She nods and bats her eyes, grinning a little more at his comment about leaving Jules behind for Isolde. She gets to her feet gracefully and bows to him. "But I hope it's a better day for you soon."

"I hope your hope comes true." He only manages a halfhearted smile.  _ I wouldn't bet on it. _ "Mind if I take the bottle of liquor as a companion instead to keep me warm through the night?" He hasn't even tried that one yet, but he still feels too horribly sober to bear the world.

"Not at all. Oh - wait -" She turns to a cabinet and pushes herself up on her toes to retrieve a bottle from the top shelf. "That's very good, mi'lord, truly. But this is better. At least I think." She giggles. "I've only had a sip or two once."

"Put another one of them on my tab then for you two delights to share. Pretend I didn't leave quite as soon as I did in turn. Deal?" He's relieved she's taking it like this and not as something personal.

Her smile switches from professional and adult to truly delighted and girlish, and her arms wrap around him. "Deal.”

He hugs her back for a moment or two, one arm easily enough to reach around her corseted waist. Two girls, one arm. It just isn't enough, and he has to swallow down his pride again as he asks for their help to get properly dressed. It would probably be wise to wear more reasonable things, but fashion is fashion, and nothing will take that away from him.

They're quick about it and matter of fact, finishing with friendly kisses on his cheeks. It seems like he's not the first crippled soldier they've put back into some sort of order, but he doesn't take much comfort from the idea.

It is better to be out on the street again.

* * *

If Jules isn’t entirely sure what “take good care of my boy” means, the girls do. With a quick ruffle of his hair, Isolde is quickly back in his lap, pressing a cup of sweet port wine to his lips, and it doesn’t take her much time to get him into bed, and it’s been so long since he was in one of those that the softness of the mattress beneath him is nearly as nice as the softness of the woman still straddling his hips. 

"I have a theory about you, sweetheart." She undoes the sash from around her waist and the gown that was already barely there falls further open, revealing the curves of her stomach and thighs and the dark curls where they meet. "I think that you would like to give me hands, let me tie them together, and you'd find that a rather nice state of affairs."

"I, um -" Ilya's hands are in front of him before he can think, and Isolde begins to wrap the smooth silk around his wrists.

"I also think it's a pity that your man can't manage it. No doubt you'd rather it be him." She knots the fabric deftly and slides a finger underneath it, checking the tightness. "But perhaps, sometime later, sometime soon even, he could bring you back and join us."

Ilya's blood begins to rush fighting between his cheeks and his cock, and Isolde just smiles down at him. "You've thought about something like this, I'm sure, but I've so many other thoughts to put in that pretty head." She leans over and kisses him between his eyebrows. "Don't worry, baby, I'm going to take very good care of you."

"Do you think he will be alright?" It's almost a whimper. He wants this quite hard, but there's a brooding worry somewhere in the back of his head that just won't go away.

She sits back up and runs her fingers along his jaw, then over his lips. "You need him to be alright?" It's almost more of a statement than a question, and her thumb brushes over his lips.

"I... I need to be bound. That I need. But, um..." Maybe because it's two hands that are bound so nice and tight that take his thoughts back to the mercenary, and suddenly, there's a knot not only around his wrists, but also in his stomach. "I don't know..."

"Shh..." She runs her hand up and down the center of his chest. "If he'll be alright? Or if you need him to be? Which is it that you don't know?"

"Both, I think," he says and feels miserable, but he's also hard, and he's not feeling guilty enough for that to go away.

She bends forward to kiss him again, pressing his hands tight between their chests. "And so you need to just not be responsible for a bit? For him? For yourself?"

"Mhm," because that's the best answer he can give right now. It surprises him that Lu freaked out like that over basically nothing, because with the boys, with him, things seemed... normal? Well, he didn't really know him before, but...

"Could you, um, hurt me a bit? Please?"

"Oh, sweetheart, I can do a lot of things to you." She shifts her weight around, moving one leg in between his and grinding against him. "And just how do you like to be hurt?"

"Another thing I don't know. Not yet. Um, Lu and I tried a few things, but I wanted more, and Lu said he couldn't do that to me, and..." He's humping against her, somewhat desperate for more.

"I take it more than a slap to your face, or something like -" Her fingernails dig into his chest and pull down. "This."

A little hiss, and he nods. "More. Please."

She sits back and looks down at him. "And polite." Her movements are languid as she climbs off him. "I bet you're pretty when you beg."

Ilya blushes even harder. "He choked me once. I liked that. A lot."

It feels like she's taller, standing over him and looking down. He starts to sit up, stomach muscles tensing, and she reaches over and shoves him back down. "I see. But you had to ask?"

He gulps and nods, feeling even more blood rushing to his cheeks.

"And what else did you have to beg for?"

"I, um, some of his men have pierced things. Not only ears, you know? Further down, but he said he would never do that. I know he can. And other things..." Things Lucio would do to prisoners, sometimes, if they wouldn't talk. Ilya had spied now and then, discreetly, barely seeing anything, but together with what the mercenaries told pictures formed in his head, and some of those were strangely arousing.

"That's not on the table tonight, sweetness. No matter how pretty you are."

"It is, um, just a question to your answer, nothing more." His eyes water. It is rare to see someone like him so full of shame.

She strokes his face and hair. "It's okay, sweetheart. I very much doubt you can say anything I haven't heard at some point." Isolde sits back down on the edge of the bed and begins running her hand over his stomach and thighs. "Unless, of course, one of those is being mocked ruthlessly, if which case, I will go find you someone much better at that than I am."

"No, no, it's fine, I had enough of that for two lives," he quickly assures. His body is reacting quite as expected, but his mind still isn't quite there.

Her mouth presses into a thin line at the comment. "And some of these other things?"

"Bound to a cross, or suspended from the ceiling, A lot of rope. Leather. Tightness. A blindfold would be nice. I, um, could hardly ask him for that, you know?"

"Mmm... I would like to see you hanging from the ceiling. Dark red ropes, I think. Completely at my mercy." She runs her fingers through his hair. "So, restraint, pain. I think I can accommodate that. Not all of it right now."

He shivers under her touch, or is it under her words?

"How do you want to be addressed? Calling you by your name feels wrong."

"Does it?" A little smile. "Mistress is traditional, of course."

"It's like , um, a patient calling you by your first name. Just not the same." He raises the bound hands enough to take a good look at them, commit the image and the feeling to his memory for lonely nights.

"Hmm..." She lifts her eyebrows at the comparison. "First rule, you will tell me immediately if something is too much for you, if you even think something is too much you. Especially tonight."

An eager nod. "Yes, mistress." He can't help but smile as the word crosses his lips.

"Second rule, if I say you've had enough, you will not whine, you will not complain. You will trust me."

"But..." He wants to protest, but then slowly nods. She's probably right, and the rational part of his mind nods in agreement.

"Good boy. Close your eyes." He can feel her weight leave the bed and hear the sounds of her rummaging through one of the cabinets in the room. Then nothing. There's a tug at his hands as she loops something around the rope between them and fastens that to the headboard. Her thumbs brush over his eyelids - he's trying very hard to keep them closed - and lifts his head knotting a blindfold around it.

It's so good. So right. Did he just say  _ Thank you mistress _ ? This feels elegant, strong, natural, not like the mix of fumbling and laughter it turned into when he asked Lucio to do it. It had been nice too, and fun, but this, this was what he needed. He stretches a bit, trying to present his long body in the best light, to look pretty for her.

Teasing fingertips trace over his chest and thighs. He thinks that he hears a pleased hum from her, a subtle little sign of approval. Then soft strands of leather replace her fingertips, just gliding over him for the moment.

Devorak tenses up. Takes a moment or two to understand what she is holding, and in turn holds his breath in excitement. He always wanted to try this, even if he only realizes it now, and that Isolde is a stranger somehow makes it even more exciting. A touch, a warm, human touch. The cool leathers of the whip suddenly makes him crave it, but he also craves its bite.

Both her hand and the leather pull away from his skin, leaving nothing except the feeling of the silk tied around his wrists. Just a little too long to be comfortable. He worries at his lower lip with his teeth, then there's a swish and a crack, and a sting against his side.

_ Ah _ ! He winces, more out of released tension than pain, and she leaves him a tiny break to put an end to this before it swishes down the next time.

It is a friendly whip, designed to admonish, not to actually hurt, and Julian feels the heat in his skin where it hits, and also the heat in his middle. Each crack brings new focus onto his body and keeps the thoughts from swirling to bad places where there are worry and work.

His chest and ribs are criss crossed with hot lines when she stops. Firm fingers turn his chin, and she kisses him, rolling his already sore lip between her teeth and then pulling away. "How are you, pretty thing?"

"May, um, may I have more, mistress?" His voice is rough, and slowly licks his lip, rekindling the slight taste of pain.

Lips press against his forehead, and he might call her hand running down his chest gentle, except for the way she pauses and presses just a little at each welt. "Of course, you can." She stops, deliberately short of his cock, and rests her hand on his stomach. "Now, what to do with you?" The question is drawn out a tease as much as her hand is.

"I think I will have you hanged." Another kiss, then her warmth is gone from him, and she's speaking to someone at the door, who must be seeing him like this, and that is thrilling itself in a way, and then she's leaning over him again. "Sveta is far more clever than I with ropes, but I'm going to enjoy watching this."

* * *

Sveta indeed is more clever, even if Ilya never gets to see her. Nimble hands fix ropes in tight loops around his bare chest, and he feels himself relax with every breath into their tight embrace. She does not speak to him, just touches him here or there if she needs him to move.

Ilya's mind is swimming. He knows the women are talking, but it feels like a different, faraway language that has nothing to do with the sea of delight he's floating in. This is what always had been missing, this mindlessly safe place that's so close to a dream hidden behind the darkness of his blindfold.

The air around him gets warmer, more humid, or at least, he thinks that it does. It's more  _ there  _ somehow, spiraling around him softly, mixing together with the feeling of silk. The thick air brushes past his cheek as though driven by a bird's wing. A bird's wing that he thinks he can hear beating in the air.  _ But why should there be a bird in here? _

The ladies must have lit some incense, something musky, dark, decaying plant matter and opium, or maybe that is just the smell of death and addiction that seems ingrained in Lucio's skin that comes back to haunt him.  _ No _ . This is different. Older. Wild.

Something hard and cool and smooth slides along his cheek, followed by inhuman chatter that turns to a soft caw. He turns his head toward the unexpected sound. A sharp prick at the base of his throat, then a drag of something along the skin of his chest, sharp, then turning on its side, smooth again.

"Ah!" he says and immediately feels a bit stupid, because it's neither a very witty nor bright thing to say, but he isn't quite sure if he liked it or not. It came as a surprise and felt dangerous, and those are strangers after all, but it also feels exciting to be vulnerable like that.

Another touch to his face, little tugs on his hair, then a scrape, close to his eye, and he gasps, trying not to move. Another soft croak and tug as the band around his eyes is pulled back.

He smiles. Smiles a little more, before his face drops. This is certainly not a beautiful lady, and probably not a lady at all. The bare chest looks quite male, and black with downy feathers.

Nor is this the bordello, although there is certainly enough ominous red light. All he can see when he twists about are low hanging branches, draped with mosses and vines. Ilya closes his eyes tight, hoping that will somehow banish whatever hallucination this is. The next series of clicks and chatters seems amused. Wings beat the air above him, fanning it over his sweaty skin. Cooling. Pleasant maybe.

The bird calls turn into an inhuman chuckle and taloned hand curls around the back of his head.

He's big. Huge even, with a long, sharp beak, and, heavens, he's... hot? Can a birdman be hot? Well, it helps to ignore the head, but he's chiseled and in ropes himself and so utterly deliciously strange and Ilya has never in his life been so confused, and he does have some experience in that. He tilts his head to the side and blinks. Rapidly. Then the back of a talon brushes over Ilya's face and his chest. The birdman paces around him, touching him at intervals with a single sharp talon. Side, buttock, the arch of his foot. The point digs in once, just enough to draw blood and attention to just how dangerous this being is.

It hurts, but it hurts good, and Ilya knows he's hard and already dripping precum. This is how dreams in books always are, when they are clear and utterly weird and not just garbled work-related nonsense like his tend to be.

The needle sharp talon runs up his throat and lifts his chin, until he's looking up into jet-black eyes. The birdman's beak - mouth? - doesn't move when he speaks - and why should it - but Ilya hears him clear enough. "And so here you are."

"I'm not disturbing anything, am I?" The words and the bright smile are out before Ilya can even finish the thought of what would be a good thing to say. "But it seems that yes, indeed, I am here. What a very cozy place, don't you think?"  _ No, no, no, stop talking, he's not amused, probably never will be amused, he doesn't look like he ever can be amused, except when eating eyeballs maybe? _

"Are you disturbed?" The birdman steps to the step again. Talons draw down Ilya's back, digging in this time, and it's sharp and sweet all at once. "Or are you content to be somewhere so 'cozy'?"

Ilya's body tenses in the ropes holding him up, and he hears himself moan. "I've, um, I've been to worse places, maybe?"  _ He's going to kill me, isn't he? _

The taloned hand moves to his belly, and it would only be too very easy to slice straight into his abdomen and let his guts fall onto the ground, and that might only be making him harder. The being's hand - just the palm, thank god - runs over his cock, pressing it firmly against his stomach. "This is one kind of disturbed, I think."

"This is.. I'm sorry. Don't know what is happening there. A bit inappropriate, but, um, I was kinda in the middle of something before you arrived. I arrived. Where are we even?" Still, he stretches against that caress, eager to get more of it as long as the opportunity exists.

That hand continues moving over him, painfully slow. "You're also in the middle of something." A harsh laugh, then the hand pulls away from him. Ilya bites his lip, tries not to whine, and as usual fails. "Never actually finishing."

"It seems my middle is always trying to finish though. Always. It's a little shameful. Lucio says that it's just my age and will pass and I'm babbling again and sorry, I'm just a bit nervous. Um... Devorak. Doctor Devorak. My name."

"Not yet." Sharp talong scratch over his forehead as a hand twists itself into his hair and lifts his head. The birdman is looking down at him, and well, how do you read an expression from a bird's face, and he must be getting annoyed, of course he is, what with Ilya being himself.

"Not yet? Not yet what?"

"Doctor. You haven't earned that yet. You only think about it."

"I... I need to. It was a promise. Cannot fail them..." It wasn't really a promise. He had been only a kid, and trying to cure both his very healthy and very annoyed sister and quite a few animals, but it felt like such a good thing to do, and he had said so to his parents. They had laughed and hugged him, and... it was among the last times he had seen them, so it was important.

"Is that what is holding you back?" The birdman lets go of his hair, and his head drops back. "Fear of failing."

"Can't be. I'm a professional in fucking things up beyond reason." Ilya's thoughts are strange here, outside their normal patterns. Confused, or maybe too straight. Horny, though, always so damn horny. He had hoped so much it would vanish with the angry red dots of acne on his chin, but no such luck.

Talons on his chest again, exquisitely painful, following no particular path or order, just twisting and spiraling. "And just what have you fucked up now, Devorak?

He cringes, long limbs pulling at the ropes. "That, um, I don't know yet, but this doesn't seem a place where you end up because you did really really good, right?"

There's a soft chortling sound next to his ear, and a hand closes around him stroking up and down but too slowly. He wasn't sure whether it was meant as punishment or reward.

"You only end up here if you choose to do so. Or perhaps if you refuse to choose not to do so."

"I don't even know where here is!" That sounded exactly as desperate as he feels.

"A place between. Where the old still holds you up, but also holds you back." Sharp pin pricks at the points of the talons dance over his skin. "Vulnerable. In danger even."

"But..." Ilya shakes his head, at least he tries as much as the ropes allow him. "I'm not high, right? And not dreaming either. And the rest... Is this something, um, metaphysical?"

There's a genuine laugh, and the birdman rubs the heel of his hand over Ilya's back. "Not dreaming. Not that kind of high. If metaphysical sounds comfortable to you, use it."

"I will say it is very, very  _ un _ comfortable, but probably the best I can get right now?"

"You seem rather too comfortable with where you are."

"Oh, that." Despite everything, he's blushing now. "It seems my body is still very set on finishing what I started elsewhere, even though nobody really told me what it would be... Does that, um, happen more often here? People popping up while they are in the middle of something very different? Caught pants down, if you will?"

"Quite. And yet not quite what I meant." The being kneels in front of him. The taloned hands don't exactly lift Ilya's head, but the pinpricks along his jaw and cheeks encourage him to raise it anyway. "Your predicament here is much like your predicament there."

"You mean that I impossibly can afford being here and have to hope somebody else pays for me?" Again, he tries a grin and fails. Something in those black eyes is horrible and scary and very, very old.

"How long do you want to let someone else pay your way?"

"As long as it works?" The answer surprises himself. "I mean, um, I guess... It's nice that someone is willing to do that for me, you know? I know they said that I'm whoring myself out, but..." He wanted this, right? Lucio wanted this. To treat him like his little pet, to make him happy and pamper him and...

"And what about becoming? Your goal? Your promise?"

"I doubt I can reach it. Not with him and Sawbones. That is not doctoring. That's just... handicraft?"

"And so you're here. Strung up at someone else's mercy."

"Someone trying to make a point, I suppose?" At least there are a lot of very pointy things about him. "Or have I ruffled your feath-- sorry."

He yelps in surprise as the feathers around the bird man's neck puff out, then those are smooth again, and Ilya's being laughed at, which he did set himself up for, he supposes.

"And you live here all alone, except for the occasional guest? Isn't that somewhat, um, boring? I mean, it is a really nice swamp. Very pittoresque. Great climate. Probably full of leeches and other cute little buggers..."

That the raven still is touching him doesn't soothe him in the slightest.

"Are you bored, Ilya?" There are razor sharp claws working down his back again and that's not what he would call boring, but the question seems rather bigger than that.

"Right now? No, no, I couldn't claim that. In general..." He whimpers as they cut through the top layer of skin. Is he though? Bored? Not really. Maybe. He always just wanted to do something well, and what he is doing during his days now isn't what he would call that by far. It's an eternal mix between pain-fueled frenzy and drug-fueled calm. Not boring, no. Not satisfying either.

"And do you want to stay where you are?" The hand begins to slip between his buttocks and for a moment he stiffens with panic, but the being seems to have the ability to retract those claws or maybe make them go away entirely, and it's nothing but a hand that slides between his legs.

"I... it's not like I really have a choice, you know? He needs me." At least, he wants to think Lucio does. After the initial shock, he feels his body already relaxing for the raven's touch, only far too willing to give in to this bizarre situation.

"And you need to be needed. Almost as much as you need to come right now."

"But only almost..." Ilya shivers under his cruel caress. Finally opens up under the pressure and can't help but moan.

There is something in the back of his head not quite willing to give into the lust that is clouding his mind. It's the same little voice that sounds so stern when he's losing himself under Lucio telling him he needs to listen, but he can't, because he's too full of blood and life that needs a way out.

"Ilya...."

"Ilya....!"

"Stay with us, sweetheart. "

That he hears too, but those aren't the voice in the back of his head. Those are outside, and female, and sound very worried. A sharp pain in his cheek that is not at all pleasant, and he feels his eyelids flutter open.

The raven man is gone.

As is the blindfold. The pretty, but not too pretty, woman whose name is traveling just a few seconds behind recognizing her, is looking down at him, and there's a second woman that he doesn't recognize watching him as well. The first one smiles a bit, and touches her hand to his stinging cheek. "Good. Good, there you are." She sighs, sounding very relieved.

"Am I?" he mumbles. Isn't quite sure he is, because the other's touch felt so very real, and so very deep. His body is limp as they take him down and wrap a very real, very rough, woolen blanket around him. They hold him tight until the shivering stops, and one materializes a cup of tea with a good swig of rum seemingly out of nowhere.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

Isolde. Her name is Isolde.

"Fine," he says, and adds a more honest "I think?"

"Drink your tea, sweetie." She folds both of his hands around the warm mug instead of the single one he was holding it with, then fusses a bit with the edge of the blanket wrapped around him, but largely just stays near him while he drinks. Takes the mug from him when it's empty and runs her hands through his hair. "Any better now, Ilya?"

He thinks a while. Carefully nods, then.

"Can I... Can I wash? My face? I think that would be good." He suddenly understands why Sawbones always had those rough blankets for those who went a bit weird after a gruesome battle. The texture makes it easier to hold onto a present that is slipping away. Has he ever asked him why he started the job? Ilya can't remember.

"Of course, baby." She gestures toward a washstand hidden in the corner. "Shall I bring the basin here? Or do you want to stand up and walk a bit?"

"Stand." And he does, carefully and on shaky legs, diagnosing himself with an acute case of shell shock. Moves towards the basin stiffly and dunks in his hands. Rubs. Rubs a bit more. Fills them with water and lifts them to his face. Holds his breath as he splashes it onto his skin. Tries a deep breath that almost turns into a cough.

_ I want more. _

The thought shocks him. Those are addict thoughts. Next there will be the self-assurance that he can do without it perfectly fine and... no. Not even that. He just wants more, and it doesn't really matter who it's coming from.

Isolde stands just behind him, probably waiting to catch him if he starts to fall. She has a robe - a real one, not something slinky and see through and mostly for ornamentation - draped over one arm. Offers it to him; along with a small square of toweling.

"Is that something that just happens sometimes?" His voice cracks.

She hangs the robe on his shoulders and pats at his face with the towel. "Occasionally. Here -" The towel is discarded on the washstand, and she helps him get his arms through the sleeves of the robe before tying it around his waist and guiding him to a different sofa with a nest of cushions. "Sit, talk to me for a bit."

"Talk?" he cackles. Winces. "Sorry. Usually I'm the one who listens. When Lu asked me to try something new, I didn't think of that."

"What did you think?" She adds several cubes of sugar to another cup of tea and presses it into his hand.

"Pain." The answer comes quick. "And ropes. Proper ropes. And maybe have someone teach me to have some proper manners when asking about it. A short pang of a memory of the commander getting angry at him for being too demanding, and he quickly licks his lips. Lucio had gotten very angry and threatened to punish him, and Ilya had just provoked him even more, and then, Lucio had punished him. Ilya couldn't walk properly the next day, and he had loved every minute of it.

That Lucio still was seriously pissed that next day surprised him a little.

"And instead?" She looks displeased about something, but she also pats his knee, and he doesn't think it's aimed at him. Pats his knee then pours herself a cup of tea with too much sugar.

"I don't think I deserve this. I don't, um, don't mean the lovely things you have in store for me. Him still trying to be kind to me, that is." Somewhere down his throat, there is a sob caught that is threatening to choke him.

"You don't deserve kindness?" Her fingers run over the back of his neck.

"He's not well. You may have noticed." His head drops down.

"I notice lots of things." She pushes her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. "But what about you, sweetheart?"

"Mh? What about me?" He turns his head, grey eyes tight. "I'm not important."

"Why not?"

"I'm not a leader. Not a main character. Maybe a somewhat interesting supporting role on this stage, but nothing more, and how should I be?" A little smile. "A doctor is not a hero, you know?"

"Hmm. Just the one keeping everyone else alive. Ilya?"

"Some may still die for dramatic reasons, because the author wills them to, but I at least must try, you know?"

"That doesn't sound unheroic now, does it?" She combs his hair back from his face. "Why stay in someone else's play?"

"I fear I may only end up as the protagonist." He spits the word. "If I'm ever the center of a story, it would probably be a drama."

"Ah, and that would be a tragedy, I take it."

"What ends do those people meet? Stabbed, hanged and quartered, suicide? None of it is very pleasant." His tone has found some humour finally, dark as the subject may be. He always preferred comedies.

"And so what would you write? For yourself?"

"It would be nice to make people laugh., don't you think? At least for a little. Relief for many, where I can only give a little now."

"That's a kind thing to want." She holds both his hands. "How did you get into this, sweetie?"

Ilya sighs. Stares down at their fingers intertwining, and then he tells her.

It's not the first time he tells someone his story, but it's the first time he is distanced enough to tell it like it's somebody else's story, without tears. It helps that she is so distant, yet physically so close, and somehow, it even helps that she's getting paid for it and it's not the kindness of her heart.

The other one brings new tea and leaves them be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!


	5. Chapter 5

_ Alone. _

Lucio hasn't been alone in ages, has he? Either Jules or one of the boys was always with him. They had noticed something was not right with him, probably earlier than Devorak did.  _ Dammit, has Devorak even realized? Or did he just not want it to be true? Have my thoughts already been there? They must have been. It is obvious. He's a child. Would probably love to call me Daddy if I let him, dick already hard at the word. _

He takes a swig of the liquor and cringes. It's potent, true, but it also tastes like a whole strawberry field pushed into a bottle and filled up with perfume. Exactly what he would expect two sweet little things to think was delicious. Far too sweet for his liking, but it's the only thing he has. He’ll make do.

The names of the streets he turns down don’t attract his attention while he wanders. Soon enough he's far from the relatively well to do district that houses the brothel. As the streets narrow, the buildings become what can generously be called quaint. Warm light from shop and restaurant windows spills across the cobblestones and meets in the middle. The restaurants are still open, serving up food and music and laughter, and the sound alone makes him begin to feel nauseous. Or maybe it’s the sweet liquor. He stops in the middle of the street and turns about slowly, trying to reorient himself. 

Twinkling fairy lights in multiple colors surround one large square window. Gauzy drapes and etching of cards spread out on a table obscure the inside of the shop. Tasteless and kitschy and gaudy, and it makes him feel at home.

It's those stupid lights that draw him in at first, because they are pretty and sparkling and at least promise enough real magic to weave the spell to keep them going. Once he tried to buy some, for good money and words nonetheless, but only was told that they would not work if there was no magic around, no will and talent. He presses his nose against the cloudy glass longing for that kind of talent. It's full of tiny specks of dirt and air bubbles - of course it is, a window of this size costs a small fortune in even decent quality - and it's terribly cold against his skin.

“Something you need?”

Lucio hasn’t heard the door open, or perhaps simply hasn’t noticed the man before, leaning against the doorframe, watching with a lit pipe in his hand. He’s not as colorful as most owners of shops like this one are, but he’s got a proper magician’s robe at least. Long, rusty reds and browns, much heavier than what Lucio usually saw in Prakra. Eccentric in a city that favored flashy colors and sheer fabrics.

"Take my mind away from where it is." He hears his words and briefly wonders if that was what he intended to say, but of course, it has to be. And it's true, maybe more true than a lot of other things he has said, and it tastes like strawberries.

The shopkeep tilts his head to the side and rubs his short, scruffy beard - another anomaly in this city of beauty and fashion. The wavy black hair around his face could use a trim too. At least, it could if the card reader intends to blend in with the city, and perhaps he doesn't. A brief nod then he steps away from the door with a little bow and holds out an arm, gesturing for Lucio to enter.

The mercenary just follows the guiding gesture. It is nice to do so, easy, and he's glad that someone is willing to make decisions for him that don't include violence and  _ you're a drunk fuck, Montag _ ,  _ can't stomach your booze anymore _ , _ don't give that snakesoil salesman anything  _ briefly stumbles as the doorstep is just a tad too high.

The inside of the shop is comfortable.. Homey, if also a bit shabby. A small table with two chairs: one simple wood with a low back and no arms, the other upholstered in worn velvet. His host nods at the table and disappears behind a curtain of beads.

Lucio drapes himself over the velvet, finding the imprint of someone else's buttocks on the pillow that makes the whole chair less comfortable, but still he's very unwilling to sit in the beggar's chair. No, not a beggar, not with a wide window like this. For the first time he looks at the name and alcohol content of the bottle still in his hand and whistles through his teeth.

The shopkeep returns a moment later with a steaming teapot and two cups balanced in his hand. He sits down quietly, setting the pot and cups down on the table, then reaches in his pocket, producing a small bottle, arching his eyebrows slightly. "Tea? Or something a bit stronger? Better than what you’re drinking as well."

"Well, what are you having?" Lu dangles his legs over the velveteen armrest.

The stranger unscrews the cap from the bottle and tips it over the edge of each cup, first the one closer to Lucio, then his own, smiling slightly as he does.

"Ah, of course, a wise decision. Make the drunk man drunker and yourself a little tipsy to stand him better. I raise my cup to my new friend, may he be worth the empty pockets and the headache!" He grabs the cup and lifts it, while inside his head, Montag watches in irritation. Something here is peculiar, something beyond the fortune teller’s eccentric dress, and it makes Lucio do irrational things. Maybe it’s magic - the serious, old kind that he hasn’t found on his travels. The kind he fled and yet still craves so much. Montag well knows how dangerous it is to give into that desire, and maybe that’s precisely what draws the drunk Lucio in.

The liquor tastes of anise. Anise and herbs and alcohol, because its smoothness can’t hide how high-proof it is. The card reader lifts his own cup and tips it back like a shot glass, neck bobbing as he swallows the entirety of it. He sets the cup down and refills it. "To even the playing field, if that worries you."

"Try some of that strawberry stuff. It's amazingly horrible." Lucio beams. "Say, friend, what will we do here? Tell a fortune or, erm, cast a hex, or--," He's serious all of a sudden, the holy way that only children and drunks can be. "Heal me? Make me whole again?"

The fortune teller picks up the bottle and sips directly from it without any change to his expression. He must have encountered worse, and probably more than once. "It is rather awful. As for your request -” He shakes his head. "Magic like that is well beyond my abilities."

"So, what you are saying -" Excitement arcs through him, temporarily pushing aside the drunkenness. "Is that there is magic like that? People who can do such things?"

"Magic can do many things." He sits back in his chair and shrugs. A deck of cards appears in his hands. Certainly just cleverly palmed from a fold in his robes. "For me, it lets me make pretty lights and listen to cards speak." He shuffles the deck and draws a single card, peering at it closely. His dark eyebrows arch and his lips press together for a moment before sliding the card back amongst its fellows. "Others - they have greater talents. Why are you here, Montag? Or shall I call you Lucio?"

It's not even a conscious decision to draw the curved dagger, and yet it's there in his hand before Lucio can draw a breath. He’s confused by it himself, or maybe it's by the other’s knowledge of names.

"Lucio. The name is Lucio."

The card reader doesn't seem particularly impressed by the knife. His eyes - dark, and brown and warm - move along the metal, then of all responses, he reaches across the table and brushes his fingers over the flat of the blade. “A fine piece that.” He shuffles his deck again and repeats the question. "Why are you here, Lucio?"

"I- I can’t go on like this. Half a man, no matter what they tell me. Don't give me the usual 'Others manage too' spiel. Good on them. I can't."

The dark eyes move again, this time slowly up Lucio's body until they rest on his face. "You seem like rather more than half a man to me." He fans the cards out of the table with a practiced gesture. "Choose three. I want to know your past."

"Shuffle them for me. I can't." His lopsided grin hides tears.

The fortune teller collects the cards back into a stack and shuffles them again, fingers just as skillful and elegant as before. He fans them out on the table again. "Three. Just touch them."

"Hm. Then I want..." Lucio stares at the cards for a good while, wishing that the man or the cards or whatever power is here would just tell him what he wanted to know. Or just what he wanted. "That one. And this one. Aaaand... that."

The elegant fingers - manicured even, why neat hands and scruffy hair? - flick the chosen cards out, then sweeps his hand across the table, gathering up the rest. "Sa'id. My name. Unnecessary, perhaps. But I know yours now."

"You could have made that up, of course. Just for the sake of bad puns. Because Sa'id said so."

"I might have." He turns the cards over. They’re all upside down. "Hmm. King of Wands, Knight of Swords, and the Wheel of Fortune. Do you know much about the cards?" 

"I know several card games you could probably play with them?" Lucio tries, ever helpful. Helpful is how you might people like you, and he’s never gotten past desperately wanting people to  _ like _ him, no matter how far he gets from being little Monty.

"The other meanings?"

"The, well, fortune-telly ones? Not really, no. Never had them back home."

"The home that you ran away from in a rush? Perhaps you even burned it down, metaphorically if not literally."

"We had runes," Lucio corrects as his face freezes. The knife is back in his hand again, very casually so, just a nice little accessory with a shining edge.

"I see. Runes. And I think, a very dominating parent. The kind that demanded more of you than you cared to give. Or perhaps just the wrong things?"

"Maybe." He sets his knife aside, but close and picks up the cup, takes a drink, washes away some foul taste in his mouth.

"Both, I think. Too much and the wrong things. And never held back on letting you know you'd failed."

"It's not like I had a choice!" The words burst out, and he bares his teeth.  _ Damn. _

Sa'id raises a single hand. "None of us chose our parents. I know that well. We're not responsible for their faults, only our own."

"They said the gods cursed me with weak blood. That I was useless. Mother's little plaything." The memories still hurt.

"No wonder you wanted to escape.” Sa’id leaned over the cards and spun the Knight around. "Perhaps not so reckless after all."

"They cut off my dick and put me in shackles. Well, not literally, but..." Lucio shifts in his chair, from lounging to actually sitting. Tense. Alert.

"So you left home." Sa'id sits back in his chair and looks Lucio over. His eyes move up and down, pausing to note the richly hued, well tailored clothes and flashy gold jewelry. "And things went well for you for some time. But now -" He taps the third card. "Things aren't going so well and you have a demon on your back."

"Go on." His voice is serious. Tense. Something in the words prodded at a spot that remains sore.

"Something that you did rashly came back around to you. Or perhaps it will shortly. They don't give me specifics."

"Is this enough knowledge about my past? Or do you need more?"

"What do you want to know, Lucio? The more I know about the past the clearer any other I answers I might be able to suggest will be clearer."

"Ask me. Nobody ever dares to do that." The mercenary leans back in his chair. No, not even Jules dared to ask him about his past, even when Lucio let something slip and a question appeared for a moment in those soft, grey eyes. "I might even answer, just on this special day."

The fortune teller closes his eyes and lets his hand hover over the card for a moment. "You made a bargain, I think. You were desperate to get out. What was it?"

Lucio draws air through his teeth. "Power against freedom. And a mistake, probably. Too good to be true, or without drawbacks."

"So what would you know?"

"How to get out of that deal. But that's probably more than even your cards can tell me."

"It isn't likely. But they might give you a better understanding."

"What will it cost me, Sa'id?" This time, he asks before agreeing. The last time he was too eager to get the profits to really think about the investment.

"A wise question. Five silvers."

"Deal." He grins. That price he still can afford.

"Excellent." Sa’id gathers up the three cards and slides them back into the deck at random before shuffling and spreading it back out. "Six this time."

Lucio picks out the cards the same way he did before, touching them and sliding them just a bit out from the rest. Sa'id watches the order chosen carefully and arranges the chosen cards into two rows of three. "Top row deals with your beliefs and concerns about the present. The lower row is the same, just for the future."

"So where do we start? This one?" He points a finger in the middle of the lower row.

"I suggest the present." Sa'id turns the first card in the upper row. "What you wish was true?" When he flips it over, it's one of the pictures from before. A king holding a staff, but this time turned the other way.

"Ah, him again. But the other way round." Lucio states the obvious. "Already got a mighty staff, so it's something else I wish for?"

Sa'id has the grace to at least smile at that pun. "This is the card of a leader. Someone who is confident in his mastery of himself and those who serve him. And is clear in his vision."

"Does indeed sound like something I'd wish was true.” A bitter smile curls the corners of his mouth. “Was true for the longest time." 

"It was true -" Sa’id’s voice ticks up just a bit, turning the phrase into a question, and he pauses for a moment, giving Lucio a chance to expand on it. When there’s no reply, he turns over the second. "This one is what you fear is true."

"A guy in a coat and five fallen cups. Hm. Contents probably spilled, good wine wasted."

"Not all the cups have spilled."

"So not everything is fucked, if he'd only look into the right direction?"

"It isn't a dismissive card. When it shows up in a reading someone has also always experienced a loss recently. A real one. Real cups overturned. But yes, two remain."

"He might ruin the rest if he doesn't turn carefully though. Long coats tend to do that." Lucio nods sagely. He has some experience with the pitfalls of dramatic sartorial choices.

"He could. So you fear that you can't recover from what you've lost." Sa’id's eyes are fixed on his face, and Lu isn’t at all sure what to do with the sympathy in them. Still distant, but there seemed to be some kindness in them.

"I'm pretty damn sure, to be honest. Everything's getting worse instead of better. Not healing. Quite the opposite." He empties his cup.

"I'm sorry, Lucio." He holds the bottle back up, offering a refill. "Look closer at the horizon."

"What does that even mean, Sa'id? If there was any hope left that I could find, I... wouldn't be like this." He maneuvers the cup under the bottle, fully aware that drinking even more is not the best idea.

"On the card. Beyond the man." Sa'id pours enough to fill the cup halfway then tops off his own. He seems as interested in catching up with Lucio’s inebriation as in keeping his customer sloshed.

"A town, and a bridge to cross. So there's a way, but it's not the one in front of me?"

"There's usually at least one way out of any situation. In my experiences, at least." Sa’id sips the liquor and sits up straighter. "The last card in the row represents what is actually true in the present."

"Show me then. Should be interesting."

Sa'id turns the card over. A man with one hand raised and the other pointing to the ground wearing robes similar to the fortune tellers - heavy, long, and patterned. "So, the reversed Magician."

"Something about... connections? Heavens and earth and such things?"

"There's that. Master over heaven and earth. Over the elements themselves."

"And reversed means I'm very much not that?"

Sa'id smiles and sips again. He makes a little gesture and suddenly a thin layer of frost appears on both his own cup and Lucio's. "Much better chilled. And you're catching on I see."

"And you started showing off. Go on, I appreciate that." The mercenary grins. "Is the card just here to tell me that I'm useless or is it more a 'You could have been'-thing?"

Sa'id tilts his head and considers Lucio carefully, dark brown eyes nearly black in the low light. "More, I think, a matter of being stuck. You could go in either direction. At least, you have that look under the alcohol currently glazing your eyes."

"It's not a good look, is it?"

Sa'id shrugs. "It's simply a look. I'm more interested in who's behind the drink."

"You're a strange man, Sa'id. Does it come with the profession, or is the profession just an excuse to learn too much about strangers?" He leans forward in a way that might be considered flirtatious, or simply drunk and interested.

"Chicken or egg?"

"Good eating on both of those. So you can't tell, or don't want to. Fine. Which are the directions I could go in?"

"Next row." Sa'id leans lazily over the table, chin propped on one hand. "Same pattern as the first, but for the future." He turns over the first card in that row. It shows a young man in a garden, dressed in a brocade robe with a bird perched on one hand. Starred coins surround him. "I don't suppose you've ever wanted a bird as a pet?"

"More of a dog person. Only birds I have were flipped at me." He's not gonna let a bad joke escape as long as he still can.

This time Sa'id actually laughs, whether it's a better joke or just the liquor isn't clear. "I imagine you've collected quite a few then."

"Whole, whatsitcalled, aviary. What about the bird guy though? He looks rich. Nobility maybe, decadent fellow. Not even a bird of prey, but some stupid decorative creature."

"Maybe nobility, maybe not. But certainly someone who's in control of all that surrounds him. And has the time to enjoy it."

"And that's what I want for my future, but probably not what I get?"

Sa'id slides around the table a little and rearranges the cards so that he and Lucio are looking at them from the same angle. "Nothing is ever fixed. Is something like that what you want? When all is said and done?"

"I would like to be able to come home at some point, yes. If that home had comfort and security and a flock of peacocks roaming the luxurious gardens, I surely wouldn't mind. Would you?"

"I would want a snug little space to retreat to, but no, I would not mind such things. Also fountains and pools."

"Of course. Fountains, and a long flat pool to mirror the lights shining behind every window of your house. Live like royalty, and be able to stop worrying about money, because there's just enough of it."

"Would all those nice things be as enjoyable, if they were assured? Perhaps the winning of them would suffice? I don't know. I'm far from such things these days."

"Would you prefer to win them and lose them again? Ah, my friend, let me tell you that loss is always bitter, especially if you worked for it. Let's hope we both get the chance to get a taste one day." Lucio begins to reach out for his drink and decides for something else on the way. Puts his arm around the fortune teller's shoulders instead, because he is there, and he is warm, and he is honest, a quality he never thought he'd find attractive, maybe because he so rarely met it.

"Perhaps I've already tasted it and lost?" Sa'id turns his head, and Lucio can feel his warm breath. "And learned to live with such. A life with no fountains, or pools, or flamboyant peacocks."

"How have you learned to cope? It seems one of the things I'm not a natural in."

Sa'id spins his hand in the hair and all the little lights around the shop coalesce around them, colors dancing together. "At first," his voice sounds far away. "I consoled myself with little things like this. Then -" He begins to flick his fingers, sending the lights darting by to the corners of the room. "I learned to just enjoy memories of the past. And these present pleasantries. Pretty lights. Cold drinks. Warm bread. Intriguing guests. They come. They go. It is not so bad."

"I can't offer any skills that work well when settled. No pretty lights for me, and no wise words. Briefly wanted to be a tailor as a kid, but that's probably out of the question now." He chuckles and tilts his head a little more towards the fortune teller. This Sa'id smells nice, of spices and tobacco and dry warmth, and it's homey. Comforting.

"No. I would hazard that your skills are not so peaceful."

Lucio shakes his head. "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. And it's hard to find something else to occupy yourself with once you go down that route."

"I know of a country where the greatest warriors are also the greatest artists and poets." Sa’id shrugs again. "But it is part of their training, perhaps they wouldn't be able to learn such things later. Or perhaps they could."

"Me, an artist and poet..." The idea amuses him at first, until he becomes still. "I might actually like that."

Sa'id briefly closes his hand around Lucio's knee. "Nothing is fixed, Lucio."

"What is the likely outcome of my way then? Show me."

"The middle card is what you fear. But we already know what that is." Long fingers flips it over, and Sa'id simply nods. "Another five, much like your fears in the first row. But the pentacles mean you fear material poverty in the future. Right now, it's poverty of the heart."

"I know how hunger feels. Not here, where everything grows, but back home, where the winters are cold and long and the earth is barren. Where those who aren't useful to the tribe are the first ones to walk into the long night if push comes to shove. I don't want that." The words just spill out. He has almost forgotten the winters, when it was only being Morga's son that saved him from being sent out in the snow, and for a moment, he feels very young and weak again. The memories are vague, because he doesn’t want to remember them in any detail. Their faces are gone, old and wrinkled, and he so much wanted to believe that they went willingly, because it was time to commune with the spirits, and not because they knew that a death out in the cold was more merciful than anything the tribe could deliver.

"Even as a boy you feared being driven from your home. In snow. Starvation." Sa'id speaks the observation softly, but for the first time in the evening there's a hint of surprise in his voice. Surprise and maybe even dismay. "Yes. You did well to leave."

"I was useless. Now I'm useless again. Being useless means death, and not a good one."

"Whose voice is it telling you that you're useless?"

"My mother." She had said it kindly enough, teasingly, but he had known she was right, and that she just said to him what the others said behind his back.

Sa'id leaves his hand on Lucio's knee this time. "No one should hear in their head that they are useless. Especially not in their mother's voice."

"She was never made for tolerating weakness. That's what being a good leader meant for her. Get rid of anything that holds you down. Her mishap of a son was her guilty pleasure, and she made me feel that." He rests his head against the older man's shoulder. It's nice to be allowed this, speak to one that actually seems to understand.

"The best leaders are not the ones who weed out weakness so much as the ones who find strengths." Sa'id makes no move to push Lucio away from him. Instead, he tilts his head over against Lu's, and when Sa'id's hand leaves his knee it's only to find Lucio's own hand. "You say guilty pleasure."

"She would have killed me otherwise, by her own hand or by sending me out in the wild, but I know she was ashamed she did not. Guilty pleasure."

"Poor child." Sa'id's fingers slide between Lucio's. "And he's still inside you, driving all your fears." His shoulders shift and for a horrible second, Lucio thinks that he's being shrugged off, but then Sa'id's arm is wrapped around his shoulders, and it's quite the opposite of what he feared.

He melts into that embrace, because it was what he needed for so long without even knowing it. It is so new to be allowed this, to be the one who's held. All his affairs were weaker than him, craving to be taken by a strong man with blood on his hands, and he liked it that way, to be that dauntless creature that forced its will upon them, but Sa'id... he doesn't seem to care. Knows so much about him from the very start, and yet doesn't care, and doesn't shy back from touching the cripple with his elegant hands.

_ He'll cut your throat and rob you blind _ , a more suspicious part of him mumbles, but Lucio refuses to listen. "One card left..." he whispers.

Sa'id runs the fingers of one hand through Lucio's hair and reaches across them with the other to flip the final card. "The Eight of Swords... Interesting."

"Who bound her?" The mercenary points at the woman between the swords. "Is there a story to it?"

"Look at how loosely she's tied. If you wanted to really tie someone up is that how you'd do it?"

"So it's meant to be that way and not just artistic license. Okay. We got bondage done wrong and a bunch of swords, but nobody to wield them. Hrm. She probably could strip the rope and the blindfold if she tried, and then sell those swords for some nice coin, but she... either she doesn't dare to or she feels like she can't?"

Sa'id touches the card above it. "If the Magician Reversed is about having the illusion of power where none truly exists, this card is the opposite." He pulls Lucio closer and continues to toy with his hair. "The illusion of abjection where there could be courage."

"So she politely tells me to clench up my ass and take off the blindfold if I wanna go anywhere?" Briefly the mercenary toys with the idea if the chair would hold the both of them if he sat on the fortune teller's lap.

"Perhaps she's some part of you. One you've bound and blindfolded."

"I've never been," he answers instinctively, because it's true. He takes a deep breath then. "Some part of me I never let out, you mean? One I should try to find and free?" He looks over at the other's face that's so very close, the obsidian eyes and the aquiline nose. Wonders.

The fortune teller turns his head, and when he speaks his lips brush against Lucio's forehead. "Most of us have such a part. There's no shame in it."

"Let it be known I have no such thing as shame," Montag declares. Lucio doesn’t need to say such childish things, lacking the need to prove himself. He hesitates. "Well maybe. But it's well hidden. Say, Sa'id-" It's the alcohol that speaks, or one of the bound women raising her voice, because he never has asked this anyone. "Would you mind kissing me?"

His voice is soft, almost trembling.

Sa’id runs a single finger along Lucio's jaw and lifts his chin. His eyebrows are arched with amusement but the kind type of amusement. There are only a few centimeters between their mouths, and he tilts his a bit to the side and closes that space.

Lucio's lips part only too willingly, invitingly, and he's amazed how much much tenderness a stranger's lips can carry. When he kisses, it's hungry and eager and deep, because those he shared them with didn't want affection as much as being taken and used, and this is... new. A secret.

Sa'id has one hand curled in his hair and the other on his side, and he's pulling him closer, but it's not an order, not the way that Lucio might have insisted on a lover's physical closeness, just an invitation. This gentle offer excites him more than any force would, because it's so entirely different, and he lets himself be guided like a virgin by the hands of an experienced lover. The table topples over behind him as Sa'id pulls him into his lap, straddling his hips. He's stronger than Lucio would expected, but the robes the fortune teller wears obscure his build. A happy little noise escapes him, more that of a delighted child than that of a battle-hardened man.  _ Shouldn't have had the last one, should I? _

Sa'id pauses and presses their foreheads together. "You're not used to letting someone else lead, are you?" His arm around Lucio's back tightens, pulling their chest closer together.

"I'm sword, not sheath," he whispers, painfully hard even though he had so much to drink. Maybe the horrible brew from the brothel, mixed with something to improve the customer's arousal, or maybe it's just the delightful horror that this man might intend to take him.

An arm loops around his left shoulder, and Sa'id doesn't blink. The absence of one arm seems to be meaningless to him. He kisses Lucio again, shorter this time, but just long enough for Lucio to feel the texture of the short beard against his own smooth face before he breaks away. "Is that so? Always?"

"Maybe it's -" Lucio's eyes close. "Bound and blindfolded. Waiting to be freed." He licks his lips, already missing those strange ones on his.

It's a thumb that brushes over his lips next, but a soft one, the kind that works with books and paper rather than swords and spears. "And what do you want to do about that? If anything?"

"I... I mean, we. You.” He doesn't dare to look. “If you'll have me." 

Sa'id's lips meet his again, starting at the corner of his mouth, moving over it slowly, then just far enough to speak softly. "What do you think this means?"

"It depends fully on how easy you're to amuse with cruel jokes..." Lucio wants this. Is surprised how much he does. The fortune teller would have been way too old to be on his list of potential targets - he's not easy and willing and weak. Well, maybe willing. Hopefully even.

Sa'id's fingers brush over his cheeks and push his hair back from where it had fallen over his face. "I've never known being cruel to bring me any happiness. Nor anyone else."

"Then it might mean a yes, with all the time it takes." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be bound and blindfolded with one like him, one he could trust. Wanted to trust, at least that, the desire to.

Sa'id kisses him again, tongue running asking and between his lips this time. His hand travels further down Lucio's back, finding where his shirt came untucked ages ago and slides just under it before halting. "However long you need."

It turns out that it isn't long, not at all. Again, it might be the alcohol, or Sa'id's lips, or those dark eyes under heavy lids that regard him in that certain way that makes him feel beautiful, but he quite easily becomes undone under those slow, mindful touches. It's easy to let go in the stranger's arms, to not shy away from his hands, wherever they may wander.

The rough wooden chair quickly becomes less than ideal, and Sa'id gets them both to their feet, walking Lucio backward through the beaded curtain until his legs bump against the soft mattress of the bed. He pauses again and looks Lucio over carefully, the question simple enough to be implied by his eyes and his stillness.  _ Are you still alright? _

A slight nod with blushed cheeks, and he drops down on the bed, trying to pose like one of them Prakrian girls and failing miserably. His balance is off for more than one reason, but he just laughs about himself and tries to find a comfortable position on the soft surface.

Sa'id just smiles, tucks a pillow behind his back, and strokes his cheek.

His shirt is already loose around his shoulders. Sa'id pushes it aside and kisses down Lucio's chest, pausing when he finds a scar then moving on, because - it seems - those are just there, something to be noticed but neither good nor bad. He pauses just past Lucio's navel, both hands resting lightly on his hard stomach. Another quiet opportunity to stop or slow down, if so desired. But Lucio just nods. His trousers are already loose, and finding the balance to lift his hips for them to be peeled anyway isn't as easy with one arm as it would be with two, but he manages.

He feels silly and like a virgin, because right now he is both, and wonders if he could copy some of those things, because they feel nice, very nice even, but it's just not him, and holding back and allowing those laggard caresses is worse than being bound and tortured probably is. Very probably. With that he could at least still be proud and spiteful, at least for a while before he broke, but submitting himself to this willingly and seeing how easily his body responds to those experienced hands is... something else, at least.

He watches Sa'id smile as his hardness stands proud and pulsing, agreeing that yes, I want this, and then the man just moves on to his thighs without even a thought.

Fingers draw along the side of his cock, light enough to be called teasing - and maybe it is, but there's no cruelty to it. If Sa'id's lips are soft against the inside of his thigh, the other man's beard tickles, and Lu tries hard not to laugh at the sensation, but fails.

It's the first time he’s had a lover with a beard. The fortune teller isn't the type Lucio would usually go for. Too old, too manly, and even though what’s visible of his face behind the hair is attractive enough, it's far from what he'd drag between the sheets otherwise. And yet... something about this Sa'id fascinates him. Feels right in a way things haven't felt in quite a while. Feels real. His hand is buried in the darks strands, gently pushing the other toward his middle.

Even responding to Lucio's nudges, Sa'id takes his time. And when he gets back to the middle, he takes Lucio's hand, kisses his fingers, then captures them in his own, gently establishing that he's in charge. Not the way Jules would want a hand tight in his hair shoving him around. When Sa'id closes his lips around Lucio's cock, the message is not "use me, please yourself" so much as "it will please me to please you."

The commander briefly holds his breath. Somehow he wants to protest, make a clear point who he is and what that very much means, but the coal eyes make it feel alright to give in and let go, just this once. It will be of no consequence, and maybe today is a good day for a new experience. It's easier to allow this with a stranger, and one none of the boys will ever visit.

Sa'id slides his lips over Lucio, once, twice, thrice a little lower each time, then pulls back entirely. Lucio's whine earns another chuckle where Sa'id is nibbling at the inside of his thigh again. Clearly teasing, drawing this out amuses him. He pushes Lucio's thigh further to side, and the hand holding Lu's pulls away, moving his legs to fondle him, then stroke up his length, followed by flattened tongue drawing up the underside of his cock.

"Cruel, cruel, cruel!" Lucio protests, but he's laughing, and the roguish gleam in the other's eyes is so very delightful and rare. The stranger doesn't even pretend they're anything but equals, and he never knew he missed that feeling.

Soft lips close around him and sink down, softly, drawing back just a little before sliding forward, continuing the general teasing pace, a palm slides aloud his thigh and then up over his stomach, moving in little circles and waves.

For once, the commander forces himself to remain still, to let the other dictate the pace, as much as he's standing to attention. Looks down, and keeps looking. As many people he has been with these last years, they've always been younger, smooth, and beautiful in a way that blurred the line between the genders, and often, a hole was just a hole. This man is something new, and as such very exciting, even through the fog of alcohol.

If Sa'id isn't old, he's also certainly not young. Not nubile, or smooth, and certainly not the kind of easy beauty that people like Isolde marketed. There are laugh lines around his dark eyes, and if his lovely wavy hair is mostly black, Lucio is fairly certain that he saw at least a little gray in it. A messy beard, a hawkish nose, no he's not Lucio's type, not at all, and yet here Lucio is laid out in front of him and entirely vulnerable.

Maybe he's just dreaming. Card reading silliness and djinn sucking his dick, and, maybe the other is as real and unreal as the mermaid had been, because, he feels the same, feels so familiar and alive that it's too good to be true, and he buries his hands in those dark curls, because he needs to know if they are as silky as they look.

And they are. Or silkier even, just like the card reader's hands are softer than they should be, and he's whining to be touched more, and he doesn't whine, that's not who Lucio is, except tonight in this strange liminal space that he's stumbled into.

Sa'id pauses and lifts his head, looking up at him while one hand still runs soothing circles over his stomach. "What do you want? Right now. This moment."

"You." Lucio answers, because it's true, and in this moment somewhat more encompassing than it has any right to be.

Sa'id kisses slowly up his chest, taking his time to reach his neck and taking more time there, because there's all the time in this space. His length nudges against Lu's own, and Sa'id rolls his hips, teasing just a little, as his lips capture Lucio's mouth again. "You can have me."

"I... I think you can have me, too. If you want." Lu bites his lip. Yes. It might be the right man and the right time.

Sa’id smiles down at him, and brushes his thumb over Lucio’s lip. His hair falls forward as he leans down, thumb trailing over Lucio’s jaw to be replaced by his soft, full lips. And that’s the answer Lucio needs.

The man throws out an arm and clicks his fingers, and all the spinning little lights dim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm.... How 'bout that?


	6. Secrets that We Keep

_ Jules is killing me, and he's taking his damned time. He never even asks me if it hurts anymore, because I won't answer, or lie, and he doesn't want to know the truth. He means well, I know he does, and he's just so fucking delighted whenever I pretend everything is fine that it's easy to do so for a little while. I love when he's smiling, and his beautiful sad eyes smile along, and all I want is to see him happy, but... he will not be. As much as I won't be. The pain has turned into a constant companion, not one I invited, but one that remains, through all the remedies they offer. I clench my teeth when he accidentally touches what was once my arm and say nothing, because they shall not take more away from what remains of me. Cut me up like a damn salami. The stump hasn't turned the blueish dark or the angry red that looks as worrisome as it is, and maybe it will just go away if I ignore it hard enough. _

* * *

Something is very wrong. 

The contract he took was an easy one - providing extra security around the rented estate of some foreign dignitary visiting the city. Good pay for easy work. Lets the men rotate on and off shifts and spend some money enjoying what the city has to offer. Regroup and train some new recruits. It’s just as well. I’m not sure he could manage a battle right now. 

Lu keeps training, trying to readjust his movements, account to the changes in balance, experimenting with various prosthetics. He rather liked one clever one that he could use - at least to some extent - to block and parry with. But it’s solid steel and heavy. For a few days, he just grit his teeth getting it on and off. Then one day he broke and screamed trying to fit it on. Demanded something stronger to dull it.

It’s only gotten worse, even if he’s trying hard not to complain about it. Sawbones is no help. He just shakes his head and says that a proper doctor needs to look at it, and there have to be several of those in Prakra, but Lu refuses. Claims it's not so bad, even as he’s drinking more, taking more opium, and maybe he thinks that I don’t notice. Not that I’ve said anything. If i don’t speak it aloud, maybe it won’t be real, just a passing phase. And anyway, I don’t know what to do or what to tell him.

* * *

_ The ambassador is an odd woman, and I know about odd people. Not quite sure if she is what she claims to be, or far, far worse. She chose us, well, chose me, because I speak her language. It feels like ages that I just sat with someone for a few hours and talked about home. Home. I'm confused that the memories of the South start to feel like it again. For so long it was only the stuff of nightmares, but now? A part of me craves to feel snow under my feet again. Hear the old legends over the fire. She reminded me why I was so hell bent on becoming a man under arms, strong and proud, only too ready to do the impossible or die trying, and how abhorrent the idea of diplomacy used to be. We both laughed about that. Who would have thought civilization could change that much? _

_ I feel like Jules is avoiding me. Cannot blame him. Would avoid myself if I could. Wish I could care less about it too. Heavens know I'm trying, for him, and to feel less like I'm pretending. The old man says it's serious and I should go to the clinics of the city, so they can properly look at it, but... it's just an arm, right? Just a damn arm. Would go out on a limb and say I know plenty of folks who survived worse. Hah. Oh, fuck it. _

* * *

I try talking to various doctors and healers myself - at least, the ones that'll spare a few minutes for me, and I get the same answer time and time again. "Sounds bad, kid. Probably salvageable, but I can't really tell you anything without seeing him." But he gets furious when I suggest it, and it's all the worse because he is trying so very hard not to be angry. With me. With fate. Whatever it is.

So it's easier to pretend with him that nothing is really wrong.

And if the errands I'm sent into the city for take longer than they should, because I found one diversion or another, who is going to complain. No, I'm back after all - with liquor, and various painkillers that Lu wanted. And for me, because he didn't care for getting drunk and high alone.

* * *

_ Today, I didn't call for him, and I'm somewhat proud I didn't, like a kid sleeping alone for the first time. He's useless useless USELESS-- _

_ Dammit. _

_ This is not me. _

_ This is somebody else. _

_ I will not see him for two more days. _

_ Sleep. _

_ Take whatever. _

_ Meet with the ambassador again. _

_ See what happens. _

_ Maybe I can manage to get killed in the field. _

* * *

I could have stayed in the medical tents with Sawbones. He wouldn't have kicked me out, even if I'm fairly certain that almost anyone else in the camp would. I know that everything is wrong - awfully, terribly wrong. And they all see me as the cause of it. I guess because that's easier than just cursing a run of bad luck and stubbornness on the part of a man they all idolize. I guess.

And it hurt. Being turned aside and told that I wasn't wanted. At least, the guard posted at Lu's tent didn't say I wasn't welcome. Still, not wanted. I should know better. I shouldn't be surprised. But... it hurt. The kind of hurt that leaves no mark to be processed.

So I went back into town instead. Found Isolde. She let me stay the night, after, even if I had to pay. It’s not good to be alone now.

* * *

_ I told Jules to go away. _

_ "You don't really want this" he said, and probably managed to fit about thirteen of his damned ums in there, and he's right, I don't want him to. I want to bury myself in his warmth and forget the world for a bit, and I managed to keep my hands from shaking until he was gone. 'My hands' I write, because... _

_ Went to him later. _

_ Made love. Wordless. Desperate. He was drunk. _

_ Did he even care who I was? _

_ The weather is fine. _

_ Fuck. _

* * *

I'm failing. And I know. Whether anyone else knows that I know it... Maybe they wouldn't be so hard on me if they knew. That I know, I mean. Ugh, these words don't make anymore sense outside of my head than they do in my head.

He has nightmares. The waking kind. I think he has for years. I'd guess so anyway, the only kind of people who don't have nightmares in the camp are the ones that you really needed to be frightened of. But Lu's are worse now. Worse, and every night, and sometimes multiple times a night. And just like with everything else, I'm failing to help with this.

I think he's asleep again now. I should try to rest a bit too.

...

Was almost, actually, possibly asleep and he came back drunk again. Drunk and loud and still singing the old southern songs that he does with this ambassador. Pestered me until I got out of bed to drink some more with him and listen to him ramble. Something about birthrights, and princes, and "Wouldn't you like that, Jules, I'll just keep you where you can lounge around all day in pretty silks and read those books you like so much."

I don't know what he's talking about. Any of it. Princes. The south. Why he thinks that I would particularly care to be kept shut away even with books.

At least he still thinks I'm pretty. Ha.

* * *

_ I want to go home. Never, ever would I have thought about even getting the vague idea. That I might ever miss the cold, or the wolves, or those that walk between the winds. Here, they find the spirits a thing of the past. Barbaric, and forgotten over their beautiful new things. But then, I'm too. A barbarian, clad in furs and with blood on his hands. Hand. _

_ Hand. _

_ Bad dreams, and they don't care if I'm awake or asleep. Like they're calling me. _

_ Maybe it's father's blood that is finally waking and calling out for the earth it's bound to. Maybe I'm just going mad. Jules certainly thinks so. The boys though... they change, much as I do. Become unsteady. The rhythm of their songs at the campfire shifts to something I know from home. They may not realize it, but... _

_ Wonder if they'd follow... _

* * *

I think the cook is trying to poison me. No, not really. But the looks he's giving me have me making gestures to ward off the evil eye before I can remember that it's just a silly superstition. The charm I bought the other day isn't helping much either.

The camp is bored. Most of them have never been in the same place this long since they left home. I haven't been in the same place this long since I left home. The parts of the city that they're interested in have gotten old, and while there's plenty more I'd explore, I can't because Lu can't manage - can't stand - to be on his own for an entire day.

I'm tired.

He’s high more often than not now. Or we are, because he doesn’t want to be high alone. Or drunk alone, or both alone. Tar black opium resin in a long pipe. One of Isolde’s girls showed me how, after a rough night. Good money, at least. Know that at least. If I need to leave quickly.

I understand why he wants it. The stump of his arm is swollen, and red, and hot to the touch, and very, very painful even to look at. And wants me around, because he’s scared. He still refuses to let me bring in one of the doctors from the city. One from a rich neighborhood, with a good reputation. I’m tempted to just do it on my own. Before it kills him. Because it’s going to at this rate. The arm or the drugs, and I don’t know which.

He’s not the only one who’s scared... 

**Author's Note:**

> You see where this is headed, of course. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. Aria can't figure out how to tag this thing, so jump right on in if you think of a tag that should be added.


End file.
